Monster
by defibrillator
Summary: The attack on Snow has failed, and Peeta is forced to replace Finnick Odair as a prostitute in the Capitol. Torn between the mutt version of himself and the real one, he struggles to find his way back to Katniss. This is a revenge fantasy. A continuation of Having Them Both and Always. Canon divergent.
1. Warrior, Vagabond, Legend, Whore

**_A/N: I've finally decided to crosspost this from AO3. Hopefully it's not too provocative for FF._**

* * *

 _.Peeta_.

It's been six weeks since the failed attempt on Snow's life. Six weeks since the bombs dropped, killing the Capitol hostages barricading the mansion, and the medics that came to treat them. Six weeks since I've seen Katniss.

I'd miraculously made it to the City Circle on my own, fighting flashbacks and scattered memories tainted by the shiny backdrop of tracker jacker venom, trying to stay focused on why I was there, what my objective was. I remember being burned in the explosion, and being apprehended by Peacekeepers, fighting as hard as I could to get them off of me. I couldn't let Snow's men take me again. I couldn't let them torture me again. Things were only just beginning to get clear, my memories were only just beginning to sort out between _Real_ and _Not Real_. I was in restraints and the nightlock tablet that Gale had generously relinquished for me was tucked away in a pocket, out of reach, and soon my clothes were confiscated so I could be given a simple white cotton shirt and pants, then I was thrown into a sterile hospital room with the door locked from the outside.

A doctor was sent to tend to my wounds, using the most elite treatments available to ensure a remarkably swift recovery. I wondered why so much effort was being taken to heal my body when I knew I would just be tortured and wounded again. There was no way Snow would let my betrayal slide. My act of defiance by joining the rebels in the face of what I knew he could do to me was likely the utmost embarrassment to him. Hard to forget the first time I'd been captured and tortured, and medics were sent into my cell after each session to heal my body and keep me alive so that I'd be fresh again for the next round. If I passed out from pain, fear, or shock, a medic was always on hand to make me whole again so I would never be allowed merciful escape. And my body adapted, becoming a little more resilient every time, so it took more trauma each time before my brain checked out for the day. A cruel cycle to keep me perpetually in peak condition so I could fully appreciate what was being done to me.

And after being captured as a Thirteen rebel, it was happening all over again.

I repeatedly asked the medics that attended to me the same questions: _Why am I here? Why are my injuries being treated? What will become of me when I'm healed? ...Where is Katniss?_ Always they remained silent. They would only speak to give me simple instruction, how to keep from aggravating any of my injuries, the proper use of medications. I quickly became enraged by their silence, infuriated by the disrespectful nature of how they openly ignored me, and I hurled insults and obscenities at them until they sedated me. I refused to eat the food they brought to me. I tried my best to trash the room, but the Capitol, in all its apparent lack of foresight as far as its own sustainability, still managed to predict the volatile nature of hostages and made everything infuriatingly unbreakable. I weighed my options on assaulting the medics that cared for me, but quickly ruled it out when I realized there would be no hope of successfully killing myself and that Snow would never grant me the mercy of a swift execution for my insubordination.

It became very apparent that the torture chamber was the only future for me, regardless of what I did.

I thought about Katniss, tried to use her as a tether to the real world and my sanity. Tried to recall memories of her, hoping it would invoke the emotions I originally felt before they were hijacked from me. Most of them were still shiny. Under the heavy influence of sedatives and painkillers, I focused on the last moment I shared with her, before we left Tigris' shop and headed for the City Circle. I thought about the way she threw her arms around my neck, causing me to recoil out of the instinct with which Snow's torturers had conditioned me, but I fought the horrific, distorted images of her that they'd planted in my head and reluctantly returned the embrace. A dozen images assaulted my thoughts in that moment, flashing with such intensity that I almost blacked out. A flood of memories tied to the way her arms felt around me, the way her small body felt pressed against mine, the scent of her hair - all invoking a fleeting sense of... _something_. A vaguely familiar jumble of emotions stirred in a suppressed part of my mind as I tried desperately to grasp at shadowed images of things that happened on the train, or in the cave in the arena, or in her house in the Victor's Village.

And then it seemed like she'd released me too soon. I'd felt the familiar swell of her breasts against me, that moment where her body began to yield to me and appreciate my touch, but she'd stiffened shortly thereafter, as if she didn't want to get too caught up in the moment. Didn't want to _feel_ too much, because of the prospect that, yet again, one of us might not make it back alive. It's her defense mechanism, putting up that wall and shutting out everything, maintaining a safe distance so that when betrayal or abandonment or death happens, she's effectively protected. The quickening in my chest immediately subsided. In that moment, I could feel a shiny memory trying to force its way into my conscious thought from the back of my mind, a fabricated image of a monstrous, mutt-version of Katniss, teeth sharpened into fangs. So loaded on tracker jacker venom as I was during initial captivity, my torturers kept feeding me images of Katniss and Enobaria in such rapid succession that my addled mind began to superimpose the images as one, so that Katniss became that feral, fanged monster that consistently haunted my nightmares. I expended every bit of my concentration on forcing the image back into the depths of my mind, feeling the muscles in my chest and shoulders clench as I suppressed the urge to react. Not. Real.

 _I don't want them to change me in there. Turn me into some kind of monster that I'm not._

 _Ha_. What a remarkable failure _that_ had been. How I'd come to lose myself to hysterical fits of laughter just by replaying that moment on the rooftop in my head. A hazy image of Katniss replaced the false one that threatened to resurface, an image of her helpless and frightened and confused, her throat constricted in my hands as she gasped for air, struggling to speak. My name was on her lips. I barely remember the assault, I was so clouded by the vestiges of venom and altered memory, I don't even remember what I was thinking or what motivated me to react. I don't think I _was_ thinking in that moment, really. It was an impulse that I couldn't control any more than I could control my own heartbeat. A reflex with which I was intentionally programmed. The perfect weapon.

 _I keep wishing I could think of a way to show the Capitol they don't own me. That I'm more than just a piece in their Games_.

Alone and locked in my sterile little room, awaiting whatever fate was to come to me, I let those hysterics claim me, laughing like a lunatic - and by all accounts, I was - at the memory of that night. How innocent of a moment that was, sitting on the rooftop of the Training Center with this girl I'd spent nearly my entire life fantasizing about how I might steal a moment alone with her, finally granted that wish and bearing my soul to her as I frantically weighed the options of impulsively leaning in to kiss her but never quite summoning up the courage to do it. Even as I was being sent off to my death, this trivial urge still dominated my thoughts. There I was, having an existential crisis instead of strategizing my survival. How fucking quaint.

 _Give my mother my best when you make it back, will you?_

Somehow I'd known that Katniss would make it out of that arena alive. She was unpredictable, and petulant, and aloof, and mistrust was second nature to her, so her wariness and ability to work alone would definitely all work to her advantage. I knew that Katniss would give my mother her condolences, but with her trademark edge of fiery conviction. I secretly knew how she felt about my mother, too easily deduced from the furtive glances I'd catch from her in school sometimes, lingering a little too long on my bruises and contusions, that flash of outrage in her eyes before she'd swiftly look away. Or that day with the bread, when she'd stared indignantly at where my mother had struck me. There was no doubt that when Katniss made it back to Twelve, she'd respond with something cutting and passive aggressive to say to the grieving mother of a son that was never wanted. And that's exactly what I'd meant on the rooftop that night. I knew my words carried a significant weight to them, and that Katniss was clever enough to figure it out. I'd always tried so hard to be charitable and forgiving and good, to block out any possibility of turning into my mother, but there was always that potential, that small heat of fury inside me, waiting to be awakened. It would always show a glimmer of itself in fleeting moments, like it did then, in my carefully contained spite.

Who knew that Snow would find out about it and exploit it, use me as a piece in his Games.

I'm silently grateful that my mother didn't make it out of Twelve when it burned to the ground. Even after her death, she's still hurting me. I will always ever have the rage gene, gifted to me by her. Always lying dormant, waiting to be triggered. Snow's torturers must have been expertly trained on bringing it out, because now it's like I'm going through puberty all over again, trying desperately to control the volatile emotions storming inside me, the temptation to destroy everything and harm everyone in my path at the slightest provocation. _Fuck you, Mother. I hope you burned slowly_.

I'd dashed the image of Katniss' suffocating expression from my mind, tried to bury the memory of the bruises my hands left on her throat. That image haunts me in my sleep, and even in wakefulness too, sometimes flashing behind my eyes without warning if I let my mind wander to thoughts of her for too long. I tried to think about positive memories of her that Snow couldn't know about, things that transpired secretly between only the two of us, memories his hijackers couldn't touch. Comforting moments on the train, passionate moments in her bed, a painfully bittersweet night in mine. They were always hazy and just out of reach, as though I were looking at the world through a foggy window. Any time I could grasp a solid memory that we shared alone, I found it slipping away too quickly, only to be distorted and replaced by another hijacked image, corrupted and left to me as a lingering gift from my captors in the Capitol. Or, more often than not, I'd vividly remember my promises to always ever be gentle with her, immediately followed by an impetuous, accusatory flash of her throat colored by bruises shaped like my hands. Then, in my mind's panicked attempt to retreat from my own self-loathing, the Katniss-mutt would snarl at me from my subconscious and I'd be fighting another wave of panic.

 _Not real not real not real not real_.

After only a few days in my hospital room, one of the doctors came back to check on my progress, only to find me sitting hunched up on the floor of the shower in my tiny little bathroom, hugging my knees to my chest and rocking back and forth, repeating those words over and over like a mantra keeping me alive. Doing everything I could to keep the hijacked images of Katniss out of my head. Every moment spent near her when we stormed the streets in the Capitol, advancing on Snow's mansion, it was a war with myself not to let the _Not Reals_ take control of me. I clenched my hands into fists as I suppressed the instinct to strangle her to death. I tried to remember who I used to be, the charitable, passionate boy with the bread, who would risk a beating from his mother to save the life of the girl he loved. I thought hard about that day in the rain, tried to remember the way the rolling pin felt across my face, the heat of the singed loaves in my hands, the blustery cold sweeping through the door when I opened it to the rain outside, thought about the hollow look of desperation in her eyes when she looked at me. ...And felt nothing. What _had_ I actually felt in that moment? I'd tried in vain to remember, to reinvoke those feelings, the feelings that motivated me to intentionally burn the bread, but couldn't recall them. The memory was replaced by an emotional void I didn't know how to fill.

I tried to assess what I _did_ feel. Anger, confusion, mistrust, contempt, maybe a little hatred. Whether that hatred was real or a fabrication of my hijackers was still up for debate. The contempt was the strongest. I couldn't help but feel used, like she'd made me into a piece in _her_ Games. Like I was merely a tool for her survival.

 _I think it's unlikely that all three of us will be alive at the end of the war. And if we are, I guess it's Katniss' problem. Who to choose_.

Gale and I had settled for a lack of open hostility in those moments. Truth be told, I don't think I ever really hated him. Jealous, sure, but I don't think I hated him. He was blunt and uncensored, speaking casually of the prospect that we could all suddenly die a violent death. The cynical mutt-version of myself that the Capitol produced found some morbid appreciation for it.

 _Yeah, I wonder how she'll make up her mind_.

Even as I'd said it, I knew what Katniss' ideal choice would be. She wouldn't choose, she'd have us both. To hell with convention.

 _Katniss will pick whoever she thinks she can't survive without_.

And there it was. That blunt, uncensored insight of Gale's - that Katniss was always only ever about survival. That was the only thing that ever motivated her, and regardless of passionate moments shared for comfort or publicity, the only real thing to her was survival. I couldn't help but think of her as selfish, and maybe a little monstrous. Was that an idea put into my head by my hijackers, or was that the truth? I'd cursed my confinement in that hospital room, for once wanting my team from Thirteen back so they could help me with our game of Real or Not Real. My anger at her notwithstanding, at least I was no longer consumed with the urge to kill her anymore. The involuntary impulse was still there, lingering in the corners of my mind, but it was no longer the all-consuming objective of my hijacked mind. I could control it, push it back down. I'd wished the doctors would tell me where she was, if she was even alive. Did Snow's men get to her? Was she being tortured? I hated not knowing. I wasn't sure how I felt about our last moments spent together.

Not a week had passed after the bombing in front of Snow's mansion that my team of medics came in to undress me, never saying a word or explaining why I suddenly had to be stripped naked. I'd long since gotten past protesting or fighting. They'd just sedate me and strip me down anyway. I was told to lay back and wait, and moments later an aging, heavily made-up woman in Capitol couture entered. She didn't introduce herself or speak to me directly, only approached my bed and stared down her angular nose at me, her eyes sweeping over my body in cold inspection. When her sharp-nailed fingers started moving over my body, I'd cringed so fervently that I nearly fell out of the bed. Her fingers pressed at my throat, along my collarbones, danced over the muscles of my chest and brushed over my nipples, lightly pinching one so that it became hard. I held my breath, wondering if this was the beginning of my torture, remembering that sexual assault was not beneath Snow's methods the last time around. I instantly recalled one of many painfully awkward and humiliating moments where the guards forced me and Johanna together as they watched, throwing things at us as I desperately tried to maintain an erection, hoping it would at least lighten my torture for that evening. I remembered the countless Avoxes that were brutally raped by the guards in front of us, with the warning that our fate would be the same if our performance wasn't to their liking.

The old woman's sharp fingernails pressed into the muscles of my stomach, a quick poke into my navel, causing me to jump, and then she began to work my cock, stroking it with practiced precision, attempting to bring it to life. She frowned slightly at how little her efforts were paying off, clearly not aware that the effects of torture and extreme trauma are a significant contributor to impotence. And why wouldn't it be - my muse for an erection had been effectively distorted and destroyed during the time I was held captive. After a painstaking moment of effort and awakening me halfway, she seemed pleased enough and gave a curt nod of approval. "It will have to do," she muttered, more to herself than to me. "The Capitol has medication for that, anyway. And circumcised as well...yes, this will definitely go for a hefty price."

I didn't have time to process my confusion before her fingers went on to knead at my good thigh, and she frowned slightly at my artificial leg, those sharp fingernails tracing the lines of fiber optic strands that ran just beneath the skin of what was left of my thigh and into the mechanics of the prosthetic. Clearly revolted, she averted her attention back to my stomach and chest, running her fingers over the lines of my muscles, then through my hair, studying its texture and thickness. She then cupped my jaw in her hand with a vise-like grip, forcing me to look at her before turning my head to one side and then the other, running one finger along my jawline, and then across my lips. "Yes, definitely top price, even if you are somewhat of a gimp. A worthy replacement for the Odair kid."

She nodded to herself and stalked out of the room. _A worthy replacement for the Odair kid. A hefty price_. I knew in the back of my mind exactly what that meant, but for some reason, I was still shocked when President Snow came in the next day and sat down in a chair at the foot of my bed to offer me his proposal.

"Peeta, I think the fighting and the rebellions have gone on long enough," he'd said in his infuriatingly calm voice. "Coin's attempt to overthrow me has failed. Clearly, I'd underestimated you. I didn't know you had such...passion. I'm not going to torture you again - at least, not if I can avoid it. You're still useful to me. As you know, I've lost my most valuable courtier in the Capitol."

 _Courtier_. What a farce. As if there was any use euphemizing what was essentially the Capitol's fuck trophy. "You can fuck right off," I muttered as I rolled my eyes, immediately repulsed by the very thought of what I knew he was about to suggest. "I'm not letting you sell my body to a bunch of depraved lunatics."

"So you'd prefer to be tortured again, then?" he asked serenely. "Because that can be arranged."

I said nothing, finding both options unacceptable. I only sat back against the pillows on my bed, looking down at my lap and grinding my teeth, trying desperately to think of some way to negotiate my way out of this. I couldn't imagine my torture the second time around being any lighter than the last. If anything, I would probably be raped by his guards, now that there was no Johanna to ensure some semblance of protection. The very thought infuriated me, and I realized, there in that room, just the two of us, I would most definitely have the upper hand were I to attack Snow. He was a feeble old man, and I had strength and youth on my side. Along with rage. Which is a hell of an anaesthetic. ...Surely, he'd thought of this. And still he'd come alone, locked in this room with me unrestrained. I _could_ kill him. And then what? Snow had to have realized he wouldn't live forever, that someone would eventually have to replace him. Did he have a successor already selected, waiting in the wings to pick up where he left off? Someone who might possibly be worse than him, who would spare no expense making my life a living hell for impulsively assassinating Panem's intrepid dictator?

But then Snow laid his final card on the table.

"Were you aware that Katniss Everdeen is still alive?" he said quietly.

I tried to hide the hope in my eyes, but I'd glanced up at him so quickly at the mention of her name that I don't think I was entirely successful. I then narrowed my eyes at him and tried my best to suppress my sneer. " _Prove it_. You'll say anything to ensure your prosperity."

"I thought it went without saying that I'd like the same arrangement with you as I did with Miss Everdeen before the start of your Victory Tour. ...That we'll make this situation a whole lot simpler by agreeing not to lie to each other."

I said nothing as he looked expectantly at me, awaiting some sign of compliance. I merely glared at him, growing more impatient by the second as the blood rushing in my ears drowned out any other sound, the shaking of my hands causing me to clench them into fists before I could let the red rage cloud my vision as it so easily did in those days following my rescue.

"Peeta, I would have no reason to lie to you about her. If I'd killed her, I'd have nothing left with which to leverage you into my proposition. She is alive and safe, and will remain as such as long as you cooperate."

I snorted, disgusted by his candor and the dismissive way in which he admitted to using me and my emotions. Though I couldn't help but admire his honesty. "So you're resorting to extortion now?" I seethed. "I shouldn't be surprised." I gave a small laugh. "I wouldn't have expected anything less of you." There seemed to be a permanent sneer to my voice, and I didn't sound like myself.

The sly lip curl he gave me in response was probably the closest to an approving smile I'd ever seen on him. "My, you have come a long way, Mellark," he whispered, genuine intrigue in his tone. "Such _fire_ in you now, you may even out-burn your darling counterpart."

"I don't even feel anything for her anymore," I said hollowly, wondering if I entirely meant it. A part of me did. But did I want her dead?

Wait. No.

"...I can't even get it up anymore, so I don't know how useful I'd be to you as a _courtier_ anyway." The cynicism in my voice was cutting and bitter. I was angry and defeated. The virility I'd come to pride myself upon for so long...gone, in a matter of weeks. I couldn't realistically imagine myself successfully laying with a woman ever again.

He turned his head slightly to one side, scrutinizing me from the corner of his eye. "Is that a concession, then? Because you know there are pills for that. Pills that would be endlessly at your disposal were you to accept."

"I'm not going to risk a disease or parenthood for your Capitol freak show."

"There are drugs for that as well, Mr. Mellark, things for which you will be inoculated before you are sold to your first client. I guarantee, this is the easiest option for everyone. It keeps you and your beloved Mockingjay safe, and you'll make me and yourself quite a great deal of money in the process. You will never want for anything. My appraiser says you will go for quite a high price. Possibly even higher than Mr. Odair, considering the state of your...endowments." He said this with a sneer, and I had to fight every urge to lurch from the bed and strangle him.

 _Appraiser_. My endowments. How obscene. I was no longer a person, but a product. A product partially constructed by the Capitol.

I swallowed my rage and continued to glare at him. "Fine," I said with a dismissive wave of my hand. "But I require an initial deposit."

"Oh? State your price."

"Not money. Knowledge. Where is Katniss? Tell me where she is and I'm yours."

He sneered at me, his eyes twinkling with what might have been pride. "Such a shrewd negotiator. Did you learn that from her, then?"

"If you're just going to mock me, you can leave and I'll take my chances with your hijackers again." I could hardly believe my own reckless petulance, but my patience was growing thin, and I'd found little reward in the past year in keeping it in check as I had been.

"She's back in Thirteen."

"With Gale?"

"Yes."

I scoffed and looked away. "And her mother? Prim?"

"Her mother is with them. ...Prim, unfortunately, didn't make it out of the City Circle. She was killed in the second wave of explosives."

This, I hadn't expected. I'd suddenly felt as though I'd been punched in the gut, and I knew my face showed it, because Snow's wry grin widened a little as he inspected my reaction. I immediately composed myself, letting my face settle back into a neutral expression and responded simply, "And you thought this was necessary?" I'd surprised myself at how detached and businesslike my voice sounded when I said it.

Snow chuckled and reclined in his chair. "The bombs weren't mine, Mr. Mellark. As you know, weaponry of that specialty belongs almost exclusively to Thirteen. Unfortunate that so much destruction had to result, but I can't help but admire Coin's acumen for opportunistic warfare. Make the people think I'd wasted my own citizens and their children...it would have been ingenious had the entire Capitol not figured out that I couldn't have a single working hovercraft at my disposal since Thirteen hijacked them all. I don't have nearly the support I used to, but most of the Capitol sees Coin as a bigger threat than me. They'd sooner choose the lesser of two evils any day. The point is, Peeta...you may call me...despotic, cruel, ruthless. But the difference between myself and Coin is...at least I would never lie to you about being those things. A fair bargain, wouldn't you think?"

Every bit of me wanted him to be lying, but I knew he wasn't. All I could do was nod numbly in acceptance. Prim, dead. Katniss would undoubtedly be devastated. It wasn't difficult for me to imagine the state she must have been in, fragile and broken and overwhelmed with emotion to the point where she likely couldn't function. ...And likely seeking solace in Gale's arms.

"Does she know?" I blurted out, grasping at anything to distract me from thinking the inevitable. "That the bombs were Coin's?"

"I would assume the contrary."

"And how do you know Coin won't kill Katniss herself? I imagine Coin's not too thrilled about her precious Mockingjay failing the mission and stifling her rise to power. It became clear to everyone that Coin wanted her dead the moment I was assigned to the squad."

He paused a moment, and his eyes went vacant for a split second before focusing back on mine, as if he were trying to remember something, or was deliberating on a decision. It was only fleeting, but I caught it, nonetheless. "She can't kill the Mockingjay," he said after a short silence. "As much as she would like to. The failed attempt on storming my mansion caused a lapse in the rebellions in the districts. People are losing hope in Coin's promises. Miss Everdeen is still very much needed. She's safe as long as you're compliant and the need to incite rebellion is there."

"And you're okay with this? About Coin continuing to make attempts on your life?"

"Well, they _were_ only attempts. And they failed. But most importantly, both sides are devastated from the fruitless attempt at shifting power. Neither side has any surprises left. It would seem as though we're currently at a stalemate. ...In the meantime, I think you'll find the luxuries provided to you by your new profession _quite_ accommodating."

And he'd left without another word.

Shortly afterward, I was almost pleasantly surprised when Portia entered my room, although she was slightly more demure and reserved than I was used to seeing her. I was to be fitted for my new wardrobe, made presentable for my clients. She was silent as she tousled my hair, taming it and styling it with her fingers, an odd chill crawling over my skin as she kneaded my scalp. I stood naked for her as she reassessed my measurements, closely watching her troubled expression as her fingers tentatively probed my prosthetic.

She'd burst into tears the first time she saw it, when I was prepped before my interview as victor of the Games. She'd knelt before me, whimpering and sobbing, fingers grasping at what was left of my thigh and practically clinging to my artificial leg in despair. It seemed as though she'd been more devastated by the loss of my leg than I was. _My perfect baker boy, they've mutilated you!_ she'd wailed. The only thing that got her to stop was when I'd firmly grasped her hand and hauled her up to her feet, pulling her into a tight embrace as I stroked her back and whispered reassurances to her until her cries subsided. It was slightly awkward because I was in nothing but my undershorts at the time, but I think she was too beside herself to feel whatever excitement she would have otherwise. She'd merely sobbed into my chest for a while as I patted her and told her I was still me, just with some slight augmentations. She still frowned at it every time I was in some state of undress in front of her, and would always turn away just as I could see the tears well up in her eyes. She'd lightened up a little when she saw how easily I could still walk and keep my balance, and that I'd still retained my general aura of positivity. At least until I was taken hostage by the Capitol.

"You're of legal age in the Capitol now," she said quietly as she made me presentable in my hospital room. "I suppose Snow would make the most of the opportunity the moment it presented itself." There was a note of displeasure in her voice.

I stared at the floor and nodded. She suddenly seemed unable to meet my eyes. "I can't let the Mockingjay die, can I?" I'd tried not to sound bitter and spiteful, but it still ended up coming out that way.

Portia was silent for a long moment, concentrating a little too hard as she painted my fingernails black. "She really loves you, you know," she said quietly. "The rumors that it was all an act ended real fast when you hit that force field in the arena in the Quarter Quell. Everyone saw what she felt for you. It's why Snow tried to use you to leverage her into submission. I guess that's where she really messed up. She gave him a weapon that day, with her reaction."

I was stricken by her words, conflicted into speechlessness by disbelief and doubtful revelation. I remembered the moment she spoke about, of excruciating pain and the smell of burning flesh and plastic, then waking up to an extremely aching chest and Katniss' hysterical wet kisses, the way her arms were a vise around me as she clung to me and lamented that my heart had stopped. The memory was hazy though, another foggy window image, and I was about to dismiss Portia's comment when I thought about the videos that were used to hijack my memories. That one wasn't among them. I couldn't help but wonder why. It was a particularly pivotal moment for audiences. Everyone saw it. I had to push the thought out of my mind, because the harder I thought about it, the more the Enobaria-Katniss fanged hybrid lurked in the shadows of my memories, just waiting for the perfect time to trigger a violent episode.

 _Do you think we would have ended up like this if only one of us had won? Just another part of the freak show?_

 _Sure. Especially you._

 _Oh. And why especially me?_

 _Because you have a weakness for beautiful things and I don't. They would lure you into their Capitol ways and you'd be lost entirely._

 _Having an eye for beauty isn't the same thing as a weakness. ...Except possibly when it comes to you._

It seemed as though Katniss Everdeen would forever be in my head. Always morphing from mutt to muse. And what would she think of me agreeing to Snow selling my body? I couldn't much say no. The Capitol needed me. Losing a valuable asset like Finnick Odair, only to be replaced by the innocent, romantic boy from District Twelve. Only I wasn't that guy anymore. How would I ever be able to fake it. I couldn't preen the way Finnick did, I couldn't seduce audiences the way he did. I'd seduced Katniss, and by proxy, the audience as well. But Finnick reminded me of those vapid fools from the romance novels my mother used to read, and I had no intention or ability to become like that. I couldn't even fake that shit if I tried. I hoped no one expected me to be another version of him.

"What am I supposed to do, Portia?" I said softly as she slid a signet ring on my right ring finger, then another silver band onto my thumb, then began fussing with my cufflinks. "How am I supposed to fuck a bunch of strangers when I know I won't fancy any of them?" A dreadful thought lingered in the back of my mind as I deduced that some of those strangers might possibly be men.

A little crease formed in the center of her brow as if she were stifling a sob, but her face immediately went smooth as she held herself together for me. "There will be pills. Lots of pills. ...Just think of _her_."

I huffed out a half-hearted laugh and merely nodded. Clearly Portia hadn't been in on recent developments, as she surely would have been privy to the fact that thinking of Katniss most assuredly might make things worse. I'd merely stroked her hair and given her some trite statement of gratitude for her advice, my voice so hollow that even I didn't convince myself. Portia looked up at me with big, innocent dark eyes then, and I felt a pang of something in my chest that I hadn't felt for a very long time. I wasn't sure what it was. I think it might have been sympathy. Or gratitude at how devastated and defeated she seemed then, that someone I'd always considered to be a shallow Capitol puppet and something of a creep had been harboring such care and empathy for me this whole time. It was mildly comforting, and I think I was just grateful to be in the company of someone familiar from _before_ that I didn't see as a threat. She'd looked so pretty and vulnerable as she looked up at me, the tears welling in her eyes as she bit her lower lip to keep it from quivering, and I think old me would have kissed her. Mutt me merely stared down at her with a tense smile, my heavy, jeweled hand absently stroking the side of her face in a feeble attempt at providing comfort.

Hard to believe that was only weeks ago. It seems like it's been years. Taking clients almost seems routine now, and I know it's with the help of the diluted tracker jacker venom that Snow's doctors subject me to on a regular basis. It's nothing like when I was being tortured. It's not being used for the purpose of hijacking now. It's administered in its mildest forms, its composition slightly altered so that it doesn't target the part of the brain that controls fear, merely alters one's perception just enough to make the world shiny and bearable, so that I can escape inside my head if a client is particularly undesirable, but still be aware enough of my surroundings that I can at least marginally fake it.

There's only one caveat: it's highly addictive, like morphling.

But I'll worry about that when and if the time comes.


	2. Unchained Feral Cats in Heat

_"We're wasting time! I'll go finish her and let's move on!"_

 _My voice sounds harsh and callous, but I don't tell the Careers that my main reason for volunteering to go check on the wounded girl from Eight is because I know she's bleeding out, dying slowly. Painfully. Terrified and cold and alone. I thankfully maintained my mask of stoicism as they stabbed her in the gut, a wound that would be fatal...eventually. I intend to give her a merciful death. And also because I know Katniss is in the tree just above us, and I haven't had time to compose myself around the Careers without giving away what I know, without giving away Katniss' vulnerable position. This would at least give me time to meditate, put my mask back on. Unfortunate that we'd accidentally stumbled upon her hiding spot. The girl from Eight couldn't have chosen a worse place to start a fire. I hope the urgency in my voice isn't too apparent; I want to get this inconvenient situation taken care of so we can get the hell out of here before sunrise, before it's too easy for the rest of them to spot Katniss up in that tree._

 _I have a naturally heavy gait, but I intentionally make my footsteps conspicuous to alert the dying girl to my approach. She's trembling from cold and fear when I emerge from the brush, and she shakes more violently as I approach her. Her hands are soaked with her blood as she tries desperately to stanch the flow from the wound in her stomach, laying helpless beside the dying embers of her fire, and she convulses in terror when I come to stand just beside her._

 _"Pl-please," she begs, squirming beneath me as I look down at her in what I hope she can tell is a genuinely sympathetic expression._

 _I hold my empty hands up in front of me to show her that I'm unarmed, my knife safely tucked away in my boot, and I kneel down beside her. Her hair is matted with twigs and blood, and she cringes when I lift my hand to her face, but relaxes and gazes up at me in startled confusion when I gently smooth her hair back from her forehead._

 _"What's your name?" I whisper._

 _"Damask," she gasps._

 _I force a serene smile, still stroking her hair. "Peeta," I whisper. I avert my gaze to her hands clasped over the hemorrhaging wound in her stomach, and I gently move them away, tragically closing my eyes when I see the gushing laceration there. It's deep, and the bleeding hasn't slowed at all, the blood spurting violently with each panicked beat of her heart. I return her hands to the wound and fix her with a grave stare. "I wish I could save you. You know I can't."_

 _She nods._

 _I clench my teeth and swallow the lump that's rising in my throat. I'd managed to make it through the bloodbath at the Cornucopia without fatally harming anyone. I'd wounded some, effectively restrained and overpowered others, but I'd left it to the Careers to finish off anyone I may have injured. I did not want my first kill to be like this. It was supposed to be noble, honorable. Defending myself. Instead it's this helpless girl. I know there are cameras on me. I want them to go away. I don't want any of Panem to see what I'm about to do. At least the Careers aren't with me, won't see this act of mercy and see it as a sign of weakness._

 _"You know what has to happen, yes?"_

 _She frantically grasps for my hand with one of hers, desperately clutching it with surprising force. "Please - "_

 _I shake my head, continuing to stroke her face and hair with my free hand, giving her hand a light squeeze. "Damask, listen to me. There is nothing I can do. The Careers are out there, and your only options are them, or a slow, painful death. ...Or you've got me. Do you understand?"_

 _She begins crying softly, but nods slowly._

 _I rest my hand on the side of her face, caressing her cheek with my thumb to brush away a stray tear. "I will make this as quick and painless as possible. Is there anything you'd like to say? For them?" I nod toward the sound of the faint electronic hum of a zooming camera, hidden somewhere nearby and most assuredly focused on us._

 _She nods, then turns her head slightly in the direction of the sound. "Goodbye, Mama. Don't give up. Take care of Flax for me." Her voice wavers with the threat of a sob, but she's coherent enough. Then she fixes her gaze steadily on me._

 _"Ready?" I whisper._

 _She nods. I leave the knife sheathed in my boot. Too easy to screw up a quick, painless death with a blade unless you go for the head, and I want to return a fairly presentable body back to her family in Eight. I want her face to be relatively unscathed. I slide my hands under her back and gently lift her up toward me, a small yelp of pain escaping her from the movement. Her arms naturally embrace me, and I hold her against my chest for a moment as she shivers and cries into my neck._

 _"Peeta," she gasps suddenly, and her trembling intensifies. "I'm scared."_

 _"I know," I whisper against her ear, stroking the back of her head. "It will all be over soon." I take her face in my hands and force her to look up at me, to look into my eyes so that she can see the sincerity in them. "I'm truly sorry this happened to you." The conviction in my voice shows that I mean it._

 _Then I circle my hand around the back of her head, and in one swift jerk of my arm, I snap her neck. Most people don't know this, but it takes a considerable amount of strength to kill someone that way. Luckily I have strength on my side, and I've had to mercifully kill enough lame pigs this way that I know how to do it properly. And pigs are far sturdier than humans._

 _She falls limp in my arms, and I hide my face in her shoulder until the tears that have welled up in my eyes are forced back down. I'm not crying for this stranger, this girl I never knew. I'm crying for my forced hand. That the Capitol has made me a killer. I gently lay her back down and press my fingers to her throat, finding no pulse there. Then I delicately run my fingers over her vacant, lifeless eyes to close them, and I arrange her arms across her stomach and turn her head slightly to the side so that it appears she's only sleeping. And then I leave, knowing that what died there in that moment was not that girl. It was my innocence._

 _"Was she dead?" asks Two._

 _The detached frostiness in my voice isn't faked when I answer. "No. But she is now."_

I start awake, gasping and panting just as the cannon resounds in my head.

I haven't had that nightmare in a long time. It was up there in frequency with the one about losing my leg, until Snow's torturers gave me far worse horrors to dream about. That was a nightmare I never shared with Katniss. I always thought it would have reminded her of Rue, so I resolved to never tell her what transpired in that moment, and made Haymitch and Effie swear to never speak of it.

On our Victory Tour, District Eight was one of the more volatile districts, vibrating with the undercurrent of suppressed rebellion. Standing in front of that crowd, trying my best to be as neutral and compliant with Snow's plan as possible, my eyes met that of a woman who was unquestionably the mother of the girl I'd killed in the arena. A small toddler clutched her hand, and his name came to me in a instant. _Flax_. The woman opened her mouth, lurched forward as if she were going to approach me, speak to me. With a grave look in my eyes that only lasted a fraction of a second and a barely perceptible shake of my head, she understood. We must not ever speak of that moment. I was the only one that caught her defiant, miniscule nod of gratitude, the determined set of her jaw. A moment that passed between us that lasted all of about two seconds, and went unnoticed by everyone. _Yes. I understand. You're welcome._

I was thankful that my act of mercy with the girl from Eight wasn't included in any recaps of the Games. It was broadcast once, the moment it happened, and never spoken of or aired again. Buried. Insignificant. As it should be. I think in the Gamemakers' twisted minds, my gentle murder of a girl I didn't know was too intimate for a boy who came to die in the arena with the girl he loved. And also because my act of mercy was considered an act of rebellion, inspiration for what was already considered a problem district.

But I can't let the nightmares of the old me haunt me anymore. I'm not him anymore. His demons aren't mine. I think back on that moment in my first Games and feel nothing but indifference. I'd been so disturbed by it for so long...until I wasn't.

* * *

I'm seeing my favorite client today. I think if my brain was capable of processing emotion anymore, right now it would be something resembling excitement. It undoubtedly has to do with the fact that she's the only one who has ever treated me like a person instead of an object. She's the only client that hasn't been unbearable, that has actually been _pleasant_. She's stupid wealthy, the rumors in the gossip mags suggesting she has even more money than Snow himself. It's been customary for her to buy me out for the entire night since our first session together, and while normally I'd balk at the prospect of an all-nighter, with her it's always something of a vacation. I can relax.

She answers the door seconds after I knock, greeting me with her trademark magazine-cover smile of perfect white teeth and immaculately painted red lips. Lips as ruby as her hair, which is styled in pincurl waves that cascade over her bare shoulders, her skin a healthy opal glow that always reminds me of buttercream frosting. Sometimes I could swear she smells like it too, and I find myself compulsively swallowing because the association makes my mouth water.

"Peeta, darling," she says warmly, and I instinctively beam at her, always relieved by her lack of ridiculous Capitol accent. "Come in." She circles around behind me and slides my blazer off of my shoulders, hanging it in a nearby closet. "Would you like a beverage?"

"Gin. Neat," I answer, but not before she's already got her hand on the bottle. She knows my beverage well. I'm not sure why she even asks anymore. She's remarkably schooled in hospitality, ever the shining example of etiquette and poise. Effie Trinket would have loved her, and probably did. This woman is the pinnacle of fashion, high society, and class.

Sterling St. Claire, burlesque entertainer extraordinaire. She sells out every seat in The Peacock every night she headlines. Glam magazines have consistently named her as the most inspirational performance artist in Panem history. I'd remembered fleeting glimpses of her shining face in holographic projections along the sides of buildings when I'd visited the Capitol in my first Hunger Games, not thinking anything of them. I'd figured she was either some vapid Capitol model or some technological creation that wasn't real, only there as decoration. I'd never connected the image with a real person. And even if I had, I never would have expected she would have been as warm and respectful as she turned out to be. She's built a legacy on being the apex of fetishism and sexuality, but ever since my first session with her, she's always started off slow, easing into it with a drink and conversation. And I suppose that's as it should be, when I really think about it. Out of all the depraved deviants in the Capitol, the neglected housewives, the humiliated eccentrics who can't get their rocks off to porn alone, the undesirables who have way too much money to spend - Sterling St. Claire is probably the only one out of all of them that is truly educated in the ways of pleasure.

My first appointment with her had been after a dreadful first week on the job filled with a string of vile clients, all progressively worse than the last. I'd come to assume this was going to be standard fare, so in keeping with the pattern of increasing undesirability, I predicted my next client would be something particularly distasteful and asked for a slightly stronger dose of venom to make my world extra shiny. There's no telling what's going to be on the other side of the door when given a client's address, so when it opened to Sterling St. Claire, I'd thought I was still hallucinating.

I'd seen her perform a couple of days before, while with a client who had season tickets to the club. I'd been grateful that I didn't have to fuck the old woman right away, and was welcome to the distraction. I'd never been to a nightclub before, and at the time, I had no idea what burlesque even was. I'd watched in dazed silence under the sparkly influence of venom as beautiful, graceful women in leotards danced and twirled about the stage in synchronization beneath colorful, moving lights to music that was much more complex and intricate than anything I'd ever heard in Twelve. Elaborately costumed men and women acted out emotional scenes solely through dance and physical expression rather than words, only occasionally shouting or chanting with the music. Some of their faces were painted and some wore tribal masks and feathers, and the effect was remarkably pronounced for me as under the influence of hallucinogens as I was.

After an extended spectacle of this, they all migrated toward the center of the stage around a trapdoor that had opened up to accommodate a slowly rising platform, obscuring its occupant from view. When the platform rose to full height, above the heads of the dancers, the occupant was still in shadow, still hidden from sight by the clever use of stage lighting. There was a sudden, deafening silence as the performers stood frozen in shadow, the audience holding their breath in anticipation, and then a calm, bodiless voice announced over the speakers, "Ladies and gentlemen...Sterling St. Claire." Followed by an eruption of music when the spotlight illuminated the woman on the platform, her voice resounding about the amphitheater as she began to sing in a pleasant, lilting mezzo soprano voice. She stepped forward and seemingly was about to plunge to her death off the heightened platform, but a stair materialized beneath her foot, then another and another, manifesting one by one with each step as she descended gracefully to the stage, her song never wavering.

She wore an elegant silver gown that hugged her curves and shimmered beneath the lighting, with black silk gloves that rose up past her elbows. Her face and body were especially expressive as she sang, teasing and taunting the crowd with each verse, singling out particular audience members and holding their gaze as she seemingly sang only to them. As the song came to a close, stagehands hastily wheeled out a set designed to look like a woman's boudoir, where she sat down with a flourish, always keeping her immaculate smile in place. She made an exaggerated display of taking off one high-heeled slipper, and then the other, followed by a quaint striptease as she sat poised in her chair, beginning with her gloves, one finger at a time. Some members of the audience shrieked with excitement when she threw each one to the crowd, both of which were caught by some lucky admirer. She stripped out of her gown and down to her corset and garters, glancing back out over the audience as if only just remembering they were there and feigning a bashful, surprised expression at her current state of undress. A couple of the masked dancers from before reappeared with giant fans made of white feathers and tastefully covered her body, obscuring her nakedness but revealing a perfect glimpse of her curves.

She completed an entire wardrobe change right behind those fans, always teasing the audience and leaving them wanting more, but never revealing too much. In my haze of opiates, I counted seven different elaborate costumes on her, though I'm certain there had been more. She danced across the stage to strange music with heavy beats and dark, ominous syncopated rhythms, frequently going en pointe and pirouetting between exaggerated flourishes, a tip of her sleek tricorn hat. One part of her performance included her doing a series of acrobatics while weaving her body and legs in a thick red ribbon that hung from the rafters, impossibly twisting and spiraling high above the stage. It was fortunate that I'd been so loaded at the time, or I might have panicked at the stunts she performed, unraveling herself horizontally from the ribbon that wrapped around her waist, which was the only thing keeping her precariously suspended in the air as she rapidly descended, only to catch herself mere feet from the stage by gracefully winding the ribbon around her leg and finishing the performance with a sweeping arc out over the audience, then righting herself and safely sliding down the rest of the way and landing softly on the balls of her feet.

My client called it aerial silk, and it was her favorite part of the performance. I wanted desperately to see another show, but I found myself at St. Claire's townhouse long before I could mention it to my client.

Sterling had gently taken my hand, leading me inside as she softly closed the door behind me, and she'd scrutinized me closely, her green eyes probing mine. Green eyes. Not an emerald green, or Finnick's sea green. These eyes were the color of the woods in which Katniss used to hunt. Katniss' favorite color. I winced the moment the thought occurred to me, just as Sterling placed a steadying hand on my face, forcing me to look at her.

"You're high," she'd said, inspecting my eyes. Her tone wasn't accusatory or judgmental or even disapproving. Just a mere statement. And she'd led me to a nearby chair, guiding me to sit.

I panicked when she produced a slender syringe and took my wrist to extend my arm out, a vivid memory of my captivity flashing behind my eyes - towering figures dressed all in white, their faces obscured by a halo of bright halogen lights as I was strapped to a cold, sterile table and injected with hallucinogens and opiates meant to exacerbate every notion of fear I'd ever felt. The stick of a needle had become synonymous with nightmares straddling the line of reality. It was hard enough for me to sit calmly at the hands of my own doctors when they administered my routine sedatives. I gave an involuntary jolt in my seat but her grip on me was shockingly firm, restraining me as her eyes locked on mine, an almost hypnotic effect washing over me as I somehow found myself lost in the pools of her pupils. "Relax," she said quietly. "You can trust me."

I watched in a daze as she slid the needle into my vein with the precision of practice. She was so deliberately gentle as she did it, her other hand softly cupping my elbow as her thumb absently grazed back and forth across my skin, I couldn't help but parse something profoundly intimate from the gesture. I moaned a little at the slightly unpleasant feeling that spread through my veins when she depressed the plunger.

"I know," she said sympathetically. "It's always cold at first. Just give it a moment to hit your heart."

I hadn't known what to think, at first. Fear, that this intoxicating woman might have bought me for the mere purpose of killing me, and I was already too fucked up to care. Or gratitude, that she was a producer of more blissful opiates, a charitable enabler in my journey to being the Capitol's most dedicated junkie. My mind raced as I tried to piece together all of the events that had brought me here, grasping at every detail of the environment in which I might spend the last few seconds of my life. Lavish furniture in a posh townhouse, an ethereal woman dressed all in white, vibrant scarlet hair and a pleasant aroma that washed over me every time she caused a disturbance in the air with her movement. It was an elegant, mildly exotic scent, like the types of flowers that only grow near bodies of water. I figured that this would have been an acceptable way to die. Funny, it didn't hurt at all.

But then a pleasant vibration warmed the center of my chest, and I gave another moan, this time of pleasure. My eyes closed and I sank back into the chair, suddenly very aware of the blood in my veins, the beat of my heart, and how the fuzzy, shiny feeling in my head immediately cleared. I opened my eyes to an incredibly sober environment, the effects of the venom completely gone. Everything was real. Everything was blissfully clear. Whatever she gave me completely negated the effect of any drugs that may have been in my system. It isn't addictive - isn't even a drug, really - merely a concentration of hormones that already naturally occur in the body, originally engineered to bring a person back to lucidity whenever some careless, pampered Capitolite ends up getting drugged at a party.

"Welcome back," she said, her face radiantly clear as she smiled warmly at me. And she wasn't a hallucination.

It's become something of a routine. Snow has made it mandatory that I'm regularly drugged, but there are times when I want my head to be clear. He doesn't know about Sterling's provisions, and he doesn't have to.

I accept the drink that Sterling presses into my hand and take a seat in my usual chair, absently extending my arm out of habit. I don't even mildly panic anymore. It's a sweetly intimate precursor to our sessions together, even if it is a little fucked up. I keep my gaze steadily locked on her as she slips the needle into my arm, lightly gritting my teeth at the cold seeping through my veins, but it hits my heart soon enough and I'm greeted with a burst of vibrant color behind my eyes as the foggy window in my head instantly clears.

She gently rubs the sore puncture mark in my arm, frowning at the mottled state of my skin there. She disappears for a moment and returns with a small round pot that looks like some kind of makeup product, but then she unscrews the lid and dabs a bit of the contents to the inner crease of my elbow.

"For the track marks," she explains. I watch them fade almost instantaneously as she screws the lid back on and presses the little vial into my palm, and she reaches up with her other hand to tilt my chin up so that I'm forced to meet her sober gaze. "Promise me something, Peeta. ...Don't become a tweaker like the rest of them. I know this can all be unbearable sometimes, but we need you to stay...you."

"' _We?'_ " I ask, taking a sip of my gin. "What ever does that mean?"

She smiles serenely, but I notice how the corners of her eyes tighten. "Your clients," she answers glibly. "Some of us do care about you. We don't want to see you spiral out of control."

I respond with a rehearsed smile, contemplating my glass for a moment. I'm not sure what to say to this, so I say nothing. Truth be told, now that my faculties are back, I'm having a hard time not feeling slightly restless. Sterling has built a reputation on being a tease. I find myself growing hard already, and I wonder how agreeable she'd be to me pinning her wrists above her head and taking her there on the couch before we've even had the chance to brush over the niceties of conversation. Typically my job is allowing a client to do whatever depraved things they want to me; Capitolites don't buy us for the sex, they buy us for the power it gives them. But Sterling is a switch. She can certainly give as good as she takes - I've seen her wield a whip with unrivaled precision - but with me, she always prefers to be submissive. I think maybe that's why I appreciate her so much. I'd never been one to really care all that much about being in control, but once Snow got hold of me, I've come to cherish the rare moments where I'm allowed that luxury.

 _"How do you feel about spanking?"_ she'd asked not ten minutes into our first session, her tone as businesslike as if we were discussing annual profit margins. _"You bought me,"_ I'd answered. _"You're free to do with me as you please."_ My voice had sounded so hollow, parroting lines I'd had to say ad nauseam to countless clients, and loathing them even more every time I had to repeat them. _"Oh no,"_ she'd laughed. _"Not you. Me. I was wondering if you'd be squeamish about taking me over your knee."_ I'd felt an immediate tightness in my chest, partially from excitement, surprise, and gratitude, and partially from a fleeting memory that flashed behind my eyes, a moment stolen with Katniss in my bed. I'd tried desperately to hold on to it, to cherish that memory and see if it invoked the emotions I'd felt then, but it slipped away as surely as they always did. Of course I had no qualms about reddening a girl's bottom. That first night with Sterling showed she could take it like a champ, too. I often find myself growing hard just thinking about it.

And then, some time later in the night, she asked me if I liked masturbating for an audience. _"I like to watch._ _Would you do that for me? Let me watch you?"_ Her nonchalant suggestion combined with the delightful sensation of her luxurious designer sheets against my naked flesh was inspiration enough, and in an exhausted half-slumber, hanging on the edge of sleep, I'd lethargically rubbed myself through the sheet as she watched in rapt silence, teasing her with a show. Then I'd slowly pushed the sheet back, my cock springing into view, and I heard her sharply inhale, feeling the mattress give a little next to me as she tensed in anticipation. _"Just like that, Peeta,"_ she whispered breathlessly. _"Nice and slow. Mm. You really know how to tease."_ Eyes closed and my movements slow and deliberate with the lethargy of sleep, I'd drawn out a lengthy show for her as I stroked myself, eventually feeling her soft hand on my thighs, her breathing slow and heavy and turning into moans as she watched me massage myself to climax. I'd caught a glimpse of her through heavy-lidded eyes, and her gaze alternated from my cock to my face, her pupils dilating dramatically as she watched me finish.

As if she'd been prepared for this, she produced a warm, damp towel out of nowhere and gently wiped my fluids from my stomach, causing me to give a little contented moan in my near-sleep. _"That's always my favorite part, watching a guy spill his seed on his belly. ...You're a healthy man, Peeta Mellark."_ And then she'd leaned forward and placed a soft kiss below my navel, just as I drifted off to sleep.

I think what's always been so erotic about her is that she knows exactly what she wants and isn't ashamed of her fetishes - and most importantly, her fetishes aren't the ones that are meant to humiliate or harm, like most of my clients. And I'm finding it very difficult not to unzip and put on a show for her right now. I'm going to need relief soon.

"Peeta?" she asks tentatively, pulling me out of my thoughts.

I realize that I'm staring at her with an intensity that's probably frightening. I look down again, slowly rubbing my palm along my good thigh, hoping it will distract me from the ache in my groin. I'm almost certain this _effect_ she has originally started out as a carefully calculated behavior meant to manipulate men into pliability, but at this point, after however many years doing it, the ease at which she perpetuates it, I think maybe it's become a constant, involuntary habit that she can't switch off. I can't think clearly. Her gaze is too intense, too probing, as if she's staring _through_ me and not at me. I often find myself quickly looking away when under her intense scrutiny, because I feel she can see my soul, the bleak shadows that haunt my mind. And I'm ashamed of them.

"Sorry," I breathe, draining my glass in one swallow, and she's refilling it before I can even set it down. "I'm a little distracted. Come on, Sterling. No one really cares if I become an addict," I say softly, my voice sounding more defeated than I'd intended.

"I do. And _she_ does."

 _I do. I need you._

My eyes snap up to meet hers. She doesn't need to say a name for me to know who _she_ is. My mouth opens in shocked indignation, my mind reeling at how she's unceremoniously brought _her_ up. Sterling has always ever been about poise and courtesy, and wouldn't ever come close to bringing up such a potentially offensive subject.

"I don't care what _she_ thinks. She's not a part of me anymore." My voice is flat, almost a monotone.

Sterling cocks her head to the side, looking through me again. "So you _don't_ favor gin because the aroma of the juniper reminds you of her, then?" she says matter-of-factly.

I don't even realize that I'm gripping the glass so hard until it shatters to pieces in my hand, the liquor stinging cruelly in the deep cuts I've inflicted on myself. What is she doing? Sterling has never been so blunt, so daringly audacious. But now that she's put the notion in my head, the wooded scent of the liquor seems almost overwhelming now, invading my senses and bringing to mind images of pine cones and _her_ , images of _her_ everywhere in my head.

Damn it.

I stiffen as Sterling brings me out of my frenzy, kneeling before me with a damp cloth that smells of antiseptic as she turns my palm upward and begins to gingerly pick shards of glass out of my skin. I'd glare down at her if I wasn't wincing so much. "What are you doing?" I whisper.

She doesn't look at me. "I'm disinfecting your wounds," she says flatly.

"You know what I mean."

She says nothing, still concentrating on plucking the shards from my palm. I wince as she presses the antiseptic cloth to my hand, which stings in at least a dozen little cuts. I'm dripping blood profusely on her white plush carpet, and this trivial matter suddenly seems overwhelming to me. I feel a sense of panic rise in my throat, remembering how horribly I'd been beaten in one instance immediately following my torture, how Snow had been so angry that I'd dripped blood on the carpet when I was hauled in front of a bunch of cameras for an interview with Caesar. Sterling seems to sense my state of unease, because she abruptly looks up and catches my face in her hand, forcing me to look at her and not at the increasing stain of red at my feet.

"Sterling," I say quietly, though my tone is grave enough that she pauses what she's doing, avoiding my gaze again. "Who are you?"

Her green eyes flit to mine and hold my gaze for a mere second, and fleeting though it is, it's clear that whatever seductive power she typically engenders is not there now. It's just innocence and trepidation and maybe mild warning, but then it's gone in an instant when she looks away, busying herself with wrapping my hand in fresh bandages.

She inhales slowly, then gives a barely perceptible shake of her head, allowing a chasm of silence to stretch between us. "Do you think you can masturbate left-handed, then?" she says finally, her voice low and grave, her gaze still not meeting mine.

I'll have to accept it's the end of the conversation. And it isn't like I'm not surprised. Being mysterious is the foundation of her marketability.

"Of course I can," I say softly. "I had plenty of practice the first time my mother broke my fingers for catching me doing it in the first place."

Sterling gives me a sad smile and I slowly unzip my pants.


	3. Just Who Do You Think You Are?

_.Katniss._

Two days after Squad 451 left to infiltrate the Capitol, Mr. Mellark wandered into the rubble on the surface of Thirteen and alarmed the guards on border patrol.

Nobody recognized him initially, and as unkempt and incoherent as he was upon discovery, he was enough to spook even the most dauntless of soldiers. After a futile interrogation, he was left to the mercy of the medics in the hospital wing, where my mother inevitably stumbled upon him during her rounds. He'd been listless and mostly unresponsive during questioning, and the few times he did speak, it was an assortment of nonsense words that no one could comprehend. The medics had given up on him, but the moment my mother walked into the room, their eyes locked and he whispered her name - the first coherent moment from him since he'd been discovered. It had taken her a moment to register how she knew him, he was so unrecognizable from whatever trauma he'd experienced, but then she rushed to his side, taking his face in her hands and staring into his eyes in disbelief, elated that at least one other person had miraculously survived Twelve.

It only took her a few minutes of talking to him, asking where he'd been all this time and how he'd survived, to figure out that something was very, very wrong with his head. He couldn't remember what happened to Twelve, didn't remember what happened to his wife and sons. ...Didn't even remember Peeta, or that he had any sons at all. He had no idea where he'd been since the destruction of Twelve, how he'd survived, or how he'd gotten all the way to Thirteen. The only thing he seemed to remember at all was my mother's name, and some moment they'd shared when they were teenagers, when he'd come to the apothecary to purchase medicine for his ailing mother.

 _Dissociative fugue_ , my mother called it. She knew the general symptoms of it, and how to make someone suffering from it feel comfortable, but that was about the extent of her knowledge. It was a sickness of the mind, and she had seen it before because it sometimes afflicted the loved ones of patients she couldn't save - particularly mothers who lost their infants. She explained that sometimes, when someone undergoes significant emotional trauma, their mind checks out indefinitely and they lose all sense of self, sometimes losing large bits of memory in the process and dangerously wandering away from home. Thankfully in this case, his aimless wandering brought him to relative safety. Once he was identified by my mother and diagnosed properly, he was turned over to the same team that treated Peeta's hijacked mind when he was rescued from the Capitol.

Squad 451 soon returned to Thirteen, broken, defeated, and much, much smaller in number. I numbly rode the elevator down in silence, Gale standing protectively close so that his shoulder sometimes brushed against mine, but he made no move to touch me. The bombing at the City Circle aired live on television. Everyone in Thirteen would have seen it. People would be wanting answers, details, some explanation as to what went wrong. I'd have to speak on it, relive it before I was ready, and the mere thought of doing that made it difficult for me to find my voice. I rehearsed condolences in my head for each individual in Thirteen who lost someone in the Capitol, but every time, it sounded trite and disingenuous. I wondered how I'd face my mother, Haymitch, Annie...Johanna. I winced as I remembered how I'd somehow been privy to Finnick's dying thoughts in his last moments, tears springing to my eyes when I experienced the swell of emotion he'd felt at seeing Annie in her wedding dress. It was likely an effect of the mutts that ripped him apart. They're always visually terrifying, but it's the psychological warfare with which they've all been engineered that makes them truly horrific.

 _Goodbye, Finnick. I wish we could have returned your body to the sea, as it should have._

I couldn't even imagine how Annie would cope with the loss. It wasn't lost on me how she'd been skipping meals, how she'd turn vaguely green at the smell of meat lingering about the dining hall. Finnick's child had just begun to stir in her belly, and sadly would never know its father. I would have wept for him, and them, if I wasn't so numb. Is it physically possible for one to run out of tears? I think I had.

And then there was my anger - my anger that nearly drowned out my grief. I kept remembering the conversation that transpired between Gale and Peeta when they thought I was asleep, and I couldn't help but feel contempt and malice for them both. That they both seemed to agree that nothing as deep as passion could ever motivate me, that all I could ever appreciate in a partner was what they could offer me, when all the forces around me have done nothing but exploit what emotions I've allowed myself to feel in the first place, and use them as weapons. How could they not see that allowing myself to grow any closer to either of them would automatically endanger their lives? For two people who always implied their respect and empathy for my feelings, that was a resounding blow. I spoke to Gale as little as possible since then, feeling a frostiness where my heart should be whenever I was forced to look at him. I'd been so concerned that day that Gale left to rescue Peeta and the other tributes, tearing myself apart at the fear that I'd lost them both that it never occurred to me that I'd already lost them, long ago, at the start of my first Hunger Games.

Fuck them. I can _survive_ without either of them. I'm the fucking Mockingjay.

But then I'd thought about the last glimpse I'd gotten of Peeta, being hauled away by Peacekeepers, and my contempt was instantly replaced with a stab of panic. He'd been captured again. And it was my fault, because again, I'd endangered him. Had he been able to swallow the nightlock capsule Gale had given him? I didn't want to think about that, even though it would have been a far better fate than the one he would face at the hands of Snow again. But Gale and Peeta were right to imply my selfishness. I couldn't fathom a world where Peeta no longer existed. Not without driving myself completely insane, not without threatening to sink to the floor, consumed with catatonic grief. After all of my efforts, I had lost them both anyway.

And then I had Coin to deal with. I'd felt an odd sense of calm wash over me when I realized she'd probably kill me now that I'd failed. Now that I'd expended my usefulness to her and her cause. It would be a merciful conclusion to everything that had happened to me up to that point.

But there wasn't an opportunity for that. Everyone was too distracted by the new visitor that had joined the population, and when I walked into the hospital ward to see my mother, I dropped my supply bag on the floor in shock and stared, gaping at Mr. Mellark as he looked up at me with red-rimmed eyes. I wonder what it says about me that I didn't feel even the slightest flood of relief that someone else from Twelve made it out alive. Instead I felt a sinking feeling of defeat, at how I'd have to come up with something to say to yet another person I'd failed. Because then I'd have to inform him of his son's fate.

But no recognition flickered in his eyes. He looked upon me as though I were a stranger, and that's when my mother rushed to me and pulled me away, explaining in a hushed voice what had happened. I stole a few furtive glances over her shoulder at him, and he was haggard and thinner than usual, a sort of deadened look in his eyes that was testament to the fact that he wasn't entirely there.

"I'm doing my best to bring him back," she said quietly. "He remembers my name, at least. We just need to find ways to remind him of who he is." She was forcing a smile through her grief, clinging desperately to this new challenge in a frantic effort to keep herself from falling apart, to avoid the awful reality that hung in palpable silence over us both. _Prim is dead_. And I probably will be as well very soon.

"He can identify _you_ , but not himself?" I'd asked suddenly, immediately puzzled at the notion, though the significance wasn't lost on me.

 _My father pointed you out when we were waiting to line up. He said, 'See that little girl? I wanted to marry her mother, but she ran off with a coal miner.'_

Peeta had a habit of divulging a little too much at times. But I didn't want to think about that. Recalling pleasant memories of him was still too painful, too bittersweet.

I wonder if my mother had known of Mr. Mellark's feelings for her. I wonder if he had actually courted her, attempted to win her affection, but ultimately lost to a miner from the Seam. And then a dreadful thought occurred to me, that perhaps their situation had been just like the one between me and Peeta and Gale. What if Mr. Mellark had confessed his love for her when she'd already had my father? What if she'd felt as torn and guilty as I did now? What if...what if I was doomed to experience the exact same fate as my mother. The only consolation I had was that it was unlikely I'd live long enough to find out.

"You should have him spend some time in the kitchens," I said impulsively, saying the first trivial thought that came to mind to avoid thinking about the unsettling parallels between myself and my mother, of the habit of history doomed to repeat itself. "Maybe if he's in a familiar environment, it will bring something back. See if he'll be driven to bake again." At first it had seemed like a trite thought, silly and useless. But then I remembered how ever since that day at school, after that day in the rain with Peeta and the burned loaves of bread, how the beginning of spring and the scent of fresh dandelions always reminded me of him. A breeze could pick up with their sweet aroma on the air and my mind would always be flooded with images of him. So another thought occurred to me, and I continued speculatively, "Perhaps if he's around the scent of baking bread, it will trigger something."

My mother looked up at me in surprised revelation. "Yes..." she said distantly, thinking it over. "That actually might help. Scent is the strongest tie to memory. That's an excellent suggestion, Katniss."

And so he was presented to Greasy Sae in the kitchen, who was ecstatic to see a familiar face and an extra pair of competent hands. He'd tentatively approached the ovens, staring at them in dazed contemplation, one hand slowly reaching out to lay his palm on the warm bricks, his eyes glazed over as he seemed hypnotized by the fire. Then he'd turned to assess the rations, his eyes falling over a large bag of flour, and a flicker of recognition seemed to pass over his face when he ran his hands over it, turned it over on the shelf. "I used to work with this," he whispered, the one coherent thing to come out of him other than my mother's name since his arrival.

"Yes," Greasy Sae encouraged, keeping her distance and allowing him to explore the pantry at his own pace.

As if on autopilot, he pulled the usual supplies from the shelves; yeast, salt, oil, flour - and turning his instincts over to muscle memory, he was soon kneading a flawless, uniform dough on the stainless steel prep table as my mother and Greasy Sae beamed over his shoulder. He set the dough to proof and continued wandering about the kitchen, familiarizing himself with his surroundings in detached silence. My mother had stood back, allowing him space to discover things on his own, but he returned to her and whispered something to her that started with what sounded like _"Remember when..."_ followed by a light blush to her cheeks and a stifled laugh.

Things seemed to be going well until the dough was committed to the oven, and the moment the smell of the bread and stoked coals began to permeate the room, Mr. Mellark's muscles tensed and he stumbled back into the wall as if he'd just seen something horrific. His eyes were glazed and he went momentarily catatonic, muttering under his breath about fires and a city burning to the ground. My mother recognized the flashback for what it was and gently guided him out and into the safety of the ward where he was being monitored by Thirteen's doctors. The episode subsided, but still he remembered nothing.

I visited him after a couple of days. He had become entirely coherent by then, aware of his surroundings and able to successfully communicate with others. He still had no memory of who he was, no memory of his wife and sons, no idea where he'd been or how he'd gotten to Thirteen. Still, he seemed very clear on who my mother was, and when I sat down across from him and introduced myself as her daughter, he stared at me in an extended silence, his brows coming together slightly in what looked like fleeting sadness.

"You have his eyes," he said quietly. "Do the birds stop to listen when you sing, too?"

There was an intensity and a purity about him that reminded me so strongly of Peeta that I felt a rush of panic and sadness, and it was only amplified by the vague mention of my father. "Sometimes," I answered, my voice breaking as a lump rose in my throat. "You remember him?"

He nodded. "I know that was a long time ago, though. I think I knew you before too, but I don't remember. There are...holes. Your mother has been doing a wonderful job helping me fill them in." His voice was soft and warm, the way it was the day of the reaping when he came to see me in the Justice Building before we left for the Capitol.

"Do you remember the reaping?" I asked, suddenly regretting it because I wasn't sure if such a sensitive subject was okay so soon after the trauma he'd experienced. I avoided mentioning Peeta, just to be safe. "You came to visit me in the Justice Building before we left on the train. You gave me cookies and we sat together and talked." I gazed at him hopefully as I spoke, watching him closely as he stared down at his arms, his fingers idly tracing one of many long, reddish burn scars on his forearm.

"Not your best trade," he mumbled under his breath.

I shot straight up in my seat, leaning forward and nodding enthusiastically. "Yes," I said emphatically. "Yes, I said that. You remember? Mr. Mellark, you remember?"

He looked up at me then, his fingers still tracing the burn scar on his arm, but the look in his eyes was so far away. Again, I was stricken by how much they were _Peeta's_ eyes, and I had to avert my gaze.

"What do squirrels with missing eyes have to do with you?" he asked curiously, and though I hadn't been looking at him, I could feel his gaze on me, trying desperately to remember, to make a connection.

I couldn't help but smile, though I continued to look down at the floor. "Me and Gale hunted them. I used to shoot them in the eye and trade them with you for bread."

He shifted in his seat, and I saw him turn his head slightly out of the corner of my eye as he looked off into the distance, struggling to grasp at some long lost memory. "And the little one...she brought me cheese."

"Yes," I gasped, those tears threatening to fall again. "Prim used to trade you goat cheese. You remember."

Our conversation hadn't lasted much longer after that. The mention of my father and Prim had become too much, and the subtle way his features settled sometimes when he made a certain face or said a certain word - even a small gesture - would resemble Peeta so much that I just couldn't handle it and found some excuse to hastily dismiss myself. I could only imagine how bad it would have gotten if the conversation had turned to Peeta, as it inevitably would have if I'd stayed any longer. I couldn't be there when he remembered his son. I could only hope my mother would have the fortitude to be there for him when that happened instead.

I wearily returned to my compartment, so emotionally drained that when I walked in on Johanna shooting up with morphling, all I could muster was an ironic sneer and an eyeroll, accompanied by an unsurprised shake of my head. There was no telling how she'd pilfered it from the hospital wing, and I couldn't imagine her being too concerned with the consequences if she ended up getting caught. I turned my back on her, pulling Peeta's pearl from my pocket and placing it in my drawer. If I was going to have to learn to live without him, I'd have to start letting go somewhere. I'd thought about throwing it out, getting rid of it entirely, but when I'd clutched it in my hand, on the verge of throwing it to the winds, I found I couldn't quite do it yet. Tucking it away out of sight would have to do.

"You didn't kill Snow," Johanna whispered after a long silence, when it was clear I had nothing to say.

"No. I didn't kill him."

"You said you would. Before you left."

"Yes. It would seem I have failed," I said through clenched teeth.

I felt a disturbance in the air behind me as she stood up. "So then you try again," she said tensely, aggression shaking in her voice.

I don't know why I suddenly became so enraged, and I whipped around to face her. " _With what army?_ " I spat. "Most of my squad is dead. Finnick is dead. Prim is dead. Everyone - they're all _dead_!" I think I surprised Johanna with my outburst, because she merely stood there in silence, which was remarkably uncharacteristic for her. "And we're all dead too," I said, my voice softening to just above a whisper.

"No," she said stubbornly, and she took a step closer to me. "You can still do it. _You keep trying until you do it_." Her voice had begun to shake with anger, and she was glaring at me impatiently.

"And how do you suggest we do that, Johanna? How many trained soldiers do we have that are capable of doing that? We can't much storm the Capitol again the way we did before, Snow knows all our tricks. We'd have to find a completely different method of attack, and I don't see too many military strategists around to orchestrate that. Both sides have suffered heavy losses - mostly civilians. We can't afford another attempt. We're _done_ , Johanna. I'm done."

"You can't do that!" she shouted, and I could tell her emotions were being influenced by the narcotics in her system. "You're the fucking Mockingjay!"

"Yes," I muttered bitterly, something of a sneer curling my lip. "Yes. I. Am. ...What do you think would happen, then?" I continued, my voice gravely calm and quiet. "Assume I did kill Snow. Then what? He's replaced by another despot like Coin? Is that what you want? Do you really think she's qualified for that job, that she'd be any better than him? She isn't the shining beacon of freedom and change that she'd like you to believe. She's played me and exploited me for her own cause just like Snow did. She's no better than him. And you'd do well to watch who you trust down here."

 _When the war is over, if we've won, Peeta will be pardoned. The same goes for the other captured tributes. It's not their fault you abandoned them in the arena._

I should have seen it then. Just the fact that I felt I even had to ask for this when Peeta and the other tributes hadn't done anything to warrant punishment shows how little I trusted Coin, even then. That I had to exploit my usefulness and commit to an agenda that wasn't mine just to allow the people I cared about the justice they already deserved.

 _They'll be tried with other war criminals and treated as the tribunal sees fit._

 _Other war criminals_. Suggesting they hadn't been forced, coerced. Stupid, vile, ignorant, sanctimonious little woman. So ready to write off anyone who may pose even the slightest threat. I'd discovered in that room that day, even if it was only subconsciously, that she was no better than Snow. I'd spent the whole time so focused on Snow, that I hadn't seen the threat right under my nose. If I lived long enough, I'd put it on my agenda to kill them both myself. I gave a wry laugh to myself, looking down at the floor as Johanna's brow creased in offended impatience, probably assuming I was laughing at her.

I turned to leave, unable to be in that compartment with her any longer. Truth be told, I couldn't much find anyone's company at that point even remotely bearable. I hated everyone, most of all myself. I stopped just at the door and turned my head over my shoulder. "Try not to overdose while I'm out, will you? I'm in no mood to dispose of a stinking corpse today." And then I'd slammed the door behind me with a flourish.

A few weeks passed as I waited for Coin to do the inevitable - execute me, banish me, or have some convenient accident take place - though it never did. I'm not sure exactly how long it's been since we returned to Thirteen. I lost all concern for what day it is and I've made it very clear that it is somewhat beneath me to get a schedule tattooed on my arm everyday. I refuse to be a piece in anyone's games anymore, and I have no patience for some rigid, totalitarian regime disguising itself as my freedom and safety. The fire that was once inside me has turned into recklessness and petulance, possibly out of the subconscious hope that it'll get me killed sooner.

With a little persistence and a lot of reconnaissance, I found a weakness in the fence that separates Thirteen's training area from the woods, and a pattern in the guards' schedules. The first chance I got, I took advantage of it, and now I come and go as I please, hunting in the woods at my leisure, not caring if Coin finds out about it. Greasy Sae is always respectfully discreet about where her meat rations come from, and she's very good at remaining ambiguous if ever questioned.

I walk silently through the woods in my soft-soled boots, wondering if anyone has ever tried to escape Thirteen. If anyone's ever had the sense to _want_ to. And what might have become of them if they'd gotten caught. I'd ask someone, but it would too easily raise suspicion, and I get the feeling I wouldn't like the answer anyway. I think about it as I check for the direction of the wind, kneel down to touch a fresh hoofprint in the moist earth where the pine needles have been disturbed from the forest floor. I _could_ leave. Take my burlap sack with me and what few hunting and survival supplies I needed, and live off the land. I could start a new life in relative peace. I think about where Eight might be, deduce from what I've seen on television, what I heard from Bonnie and Twill that day outside the fence in Twelve, what direction I might travel and for how long before I got there. I survived two Hunger Games. I could survive a migration to another district. And I wouldn't think about taking anyone with me this time. Prim is dead, so she no longer needs my protection. My mother has Mr. Mellark as her new pet project to occupy her. Gale obviously thinks so little of me that he likely wouldn't miss me. And if he did, he'd eventually get over it.

 _No one really needs me._

Funny how that applies to me now, too. It would have been depressing if for some odd reason, it didn't feel so liberating. _I could just leave_. What would Coin do? Send a search party out after me? She doesn't have the soldiers or the time for that. She would never waste valuable Thirteen resources to find someone she never really cared about. She'd likely see the biggest threat as having been eliminated and get on with her life. And even if she did send out a search party, the odds of them finding me would be remarkably slim. No one in Thirteen has my tracking skills. Nor do they have my survival knowledge. I could easily throw them off my trail, and the ones that didn't give up would likely just get lost and die of exposure. I laugh to myself as I think of how far I've come, thinking of people as expendable. A year ago, I would have horrified myself at my callousness; now I only see it as necessary.

I puzzle at the unusual hoofprint I've been inspecting, its odd shape and depth bringing me out of my thoughts. At first I'd thought it was made by a large buck, but this print is slightly different - it's too fat, too squat, a stockiness behind its weight that wouldn't suggest the lithe gait of a deer. Very similar hoof patterns, yes, but the tread is all wrong. I press my fingers into the moist earth, gauge its consistency to see if that's what may have attributed to the discrepancy, but it yields to me as normally as ever. I move forward, finding another not far away, and I realize these are definitely not the tracks of a deer. The stride is too short, too slow.

"What the fuck made this?" I whisper under my breath, just as I hear an aimless stomping through the brush just ahead of me.

I slowly creep forward at a crouch, readying an arrow as I follow the sound, watching the brush rustle and shake vigorously. I'm fairly startled when the head of a pig pops out of the brush, but it's like no domesticated pig I've ever seen before, being much larger and stockier, with a considerable pelt and small tusks sprouting from its snout. It huffs rapidly when it sees me, stamping the ground and tensing its muscles, and I get the sense to raise up and leap for the nearest low-hanging branch as it charges me. I don't want to take my chances with those tusks, but that thing could provide a considerable wealth of meat, and luckily, it's too stupid to try and make a run for it like most of the game I'm used to hunting. I ready my arrow again, training my sights on the pig as it ambles around below me, shuffling around impatiently while occasionally lifting its head to snort indignantly at me. I shoot it just beneath the eye, but all that does is stagger it. _What the hell kind of pig is this?_ Anything this resilient is bound to be worth the kill, so I draw another arrow just as someone else's hits the pig in the top of the head, causing it to stumble for a few steps before keeling over to the ground.

I whip my head up in the direction from which the arrow came and let out an impatient scoff when I see Gale emerging from the trees. I drop down from my branch and avoid looking at him as I kneel down beside the pig and retrieve our arrows. He stops just a few steps from me, staring down at me but saying nothing as I assess the kill. I have nothing to say to him. And if he's out here, that definitely means Coin sent him here, so she knows I must be out here as well. Not that it matters. If she intends to punish me, I'll be long gone by the time she can.

"I knew I'd find you here," he says finally, when it's clear I have no intention of speaking to him. He awkwardly waits for me to reply, but I don't. "You know you're going to need help hauling that thing back," he continues. "A wild boar is no small game."

My head snaps up, despite my intention to remain as disinterested as possible in him. "Boar? No, that's impossible," I say, looking back down at my kill. I've heard of these. My father used to mention them. "If there are any even still alive, they certainly wouldn't be _here_."

Gale shrugs, closing the distance between us and kneeling down beside me, and I noticeably stiffen. "Things change. Survivors migrate."

There's a significant weight to his words, and I get the feeling he's not just talking about wild pigs now. "What are you doing out here," I say quietly, my voice a dry monotone.

He pauses for a moment. "You're wanted in Command."

I huff out an ironic laugh. "Coin knows?"

"She _has_ known," he says simply.

I abruptly look back up at him. "So...what? She's sent you out here to take me into custody?"

"I don't think you're in trouble, Katniss. Otherwise she wouldn't have been looking the other way this whole time while you come out here and do fuck-all while we're sitting through Nuclear History. ...She's ready to reignite the rebellion. We need to go back to the beginning, come up with a new plan."

I shake my head. "I'm not going to be the Mockingjay anymore. For once I'm going to take control of my own freedom. I'm not answering to someone else anymore. I've done that without question for too long and all it's done is hurt and kill the people I care about. I'm done with that, Gale. The rebellion was always _your_ dream, not mine."

He stands up furiously then, showering me with pine needles at the movement. "So, what, you're just gonna check out, then? This is _war_ , Katniss. Unexpected things happen. It doesn't end just because you decide to quit!"

I abruptly rise to my feet as well, and I'm consumed by the sudden overwhelming urge to strike him. "I know it doesn't!" I shout back, "But I _do_ have the choice not to be a part in it anymore! I've fought this thing long enough. Let someone else be the hero for a change. I never asked to be a role model, it was assigned to me! Nobody ever fucking asked _me_!" I gesture violently and Gale takes a step back, and his expression turns to alarm as he gazes wearily into my eyes, which must be on fire because I feel like I could melt his face off with just a glance.

There's a vulnerability that's crept into his eyes, and I feel a stab of something in my chest that I don't quite recognize. It isn't sympathy, it isn't regret or apology...it's definitely not love or affection, but I'm suddenly consumed by the desire to have him between my legs, and I shove him back against a tree and kiss him hard, my hands falling to his waist so I can begin inching the hem of his shirt up his stomach. I don't give him the chance to protest or refuse, I just command with my urgency, and in seconds we've torn our clothes off and I'm shoving him to the ground, straddling him as I impale myself on top of him. He seems too stunned to say or do anything, and after a moment of me vigorously riding him, his hands wander up to my breasts, but I violently slap them away. I don't want intimacy. I want to use someone. I want someone to feel used, the way I've felt used. I want to satiate the aggression that's built up in me since Peeta was taken away. Again. I want to feel filled without feeling _ful_ filled.

"Fuck you," I growl through clenched teeth. "Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you." It's a mantra in time with the violent rhythm I've worked myself into, and I find my hand wrapping around Gale's throat as I ride him, my grip gradually tightening as I come closer to my climax.

"Katniss," he breathes, his voice a strangled wheeze from the pressure my hand is applying to his throat.

I ignore it. I'm close, and I can see his eyes begin to glaze over, his breathing becoming ragged and strained as his hand feebly grasps at my waist. He's so helpless, and there's a pleading behind the distance in his eyes as he looks up at me, and it makes me feel so empowered that I begin to feel that vibrating explosion unfurling behind my navel, my hand clamping even harder on his throat as I cry out with each wave of my climax. Gale looks like he's about to black out, but I feel him spasm inside me some moments after my orgasm begins to taper out, emptying his seed inside me as his hips instinctively thrust upward beneath me. I loosen my grip on his throat and pitch forward onto his chest as he begins coughing violently, gasping for air. His hands come to grip my shoulders just so he has something to hold on to as he frantically chokes back lungfuls of air, panting and wheezing until his breathing returns to normal. I sit back up and detach myself from him, nonchalantly gathering my clothes and pulling them back on as he rises up on his elbows, reaching down to refasten his pants.

"What the _fuck_ , Katniss." His voice is hoarse, but the consternation is very clear in his tone.

"Get dressed, I'm going to need help cleaning and skinning this thing," I say distantly, moving over to the pig and grabbing it by its hind legs.

" _Katniss_. That could have ended very badly."

I shoot him an annoyed glance over my shoulder, but say nothing.

"Katniss, are you okay?" he says, rising to his feet and shaking the pine needles out of his shirt. "Like really, really okay? You're not... _you_ anymore."

I straighten, looking off into the distance and avoiding his gaze. "Yeah, well. None of us are, anymore...are we?" My voice is so quiet that I'm saying it more to myself than to him. "Now let's go."


	4. Like Phoenix from the Flame

"Where is it," I growl, bursting through the door of Haymitch's compartment and going straight to his dresser, wrenching open the top drawer so that I can begin rifling through what little belongings he has.

There's an abrupt movement behind me as he's startled from sleep, and I wrench open the next drawer, upsetting his neatly folded clothes as I search for the bottle I know is stashed somewhere within. Prohibition or not, this is a veteran alcoholic. If Johanna could swipe narcotics from the medical ward without being detected, I could imagine Haymitch would have an entire distillery concealed beneath his bed. And I've seen my mother treat enough people suffering the effects of withdrawal, so I'm remarkably schooled in the symptoms and haven't seen them in Haymitch at all - so I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he's still off the wagon.

It isn't until I hear a very familiar, humiliated shrill chirp that I stiffen and slowly turn to see Effie, blushing profusely and attempting to conceal herself behind a bare-chested Haymitch as she shrinks beneath his sheets. I bark out a rude laugh as Haymitch glares, and I slowly lean back against the dresser, smoothly closing the opened drawers behind my shoulders as I go. I'd heard vague talk after we returned from the assault on the Capitol that Effie had somehow survived, that she'd spent this whole time imprisoned somewhere, but I wasn't aware that she'd been transported here. She seems mostly unchanged except for the more humble wig - a simple, pale pink bob - that sits slightly askew atop her head and the vacant look in her eyes as she tries desperately to avoid my gaze. I try to force back my smirk as I stare at them, but I bark out another laugh despite my efforts.

Haymitch and Effie.

Now there's a punchline to kill a bad day.

Haymitch scowls at me and throws me a half-full bottle of white liquor, which I smoothly catch and uncork, taking a generous swig. "So how long has this been going on, then?" I ask, indicating between the two of them with the bottle.

Effie pouts as Haymitch turns to placate her with a hand on her cheek, then he turns back to me with a hostile glare. "Not that it's any of your business, sweetheart, but Effie and I have had...an _arrangement_...for years. Long before you were even old enough for your name to go in the reaping ball."

I guess I'm not surprised. Their behavior around each other is way too comically exaggerated to not be an act. Either that or just self-aware sexual tension. I've got to hand it to them though, I never suspected before. Only in hindsight does it seem painfully obvious.

"Well, I guess I should commend you two on your decorum, then," I say blandly, knocking back another mouthful of liquor.

"Yes, we've actually mastered the art of _discretion_ ," he says caustically, and I roll my eyes. As if discretion would have ever been an option for Peeta and me, what with a camera crew being privy to every minor nuance of our romance.

"Yeah, well, go fuck yourself, Haymitch."

Effie lets out a shrill gasp and shrieks, "Language!" but I'm already turning to leave.

"Hey," Haymitch barks out, and I stop, turning at the door just as another bottle - this one completely full - hurtles toward my face. I guess I should be thankful for my hunter's reflexes, because my hand instinctively flies up and I catch it just in time. "For the road," he says with a conspiratorial smirk, and I nod, giving him a grateful salute with the bottle before taking my leave.

I'm more than certain Haymitch only accommodated me so that I'd leave him alone, and not because we're friends. Haymitch and I have always had something of a tenuous relationship, and for a while, I'd invested enough of my trust in him to genuinely think of him as a good friend, but after everything that has happened...I can never be sure. _Friend_ is a pretty powerful word, and it's not one I can really afford anymore. Or perhaps I find it so easy to save all my contempt for him because being around him is too much like looking into a mirror. I find it harder and harder to be in the same room as him, because it often feels too much like turning a microscope on myself. And it's dreadful.

But I can't waste what little emotional stamina I've got left on personal reflection. I'm needed in Command. I'd be hard-pressed to attend this little rendezvous without being completely loaded, and I figure it's the best way to openly show Coin how much I disrespect her. I imagine it will be an effective way of pushing her buttons as well, so she'll stop whatever this game is where she pretends to ignore me and hope it'll make all of her problems go away. She's not nearly stupid enough to kill me, that much is certain, so I'm hoping I'll get lucky and she'll just banish me. Still, it doesn't keep me from ensuring that the knife I typically use to skin fresh game is concealed safely within my right pocket.

 _I doubt Coin knows what to do with me now that I'm still alive._

 _No one knows what to do with you, girlie._

I walk into the war room with a little too much aimless swagger for a sober person, but I'm not openly stumbling, so I'll still have the impression of control. I'm swimming in that pleasant transition between sobriety and inebriation, and as all the eyes around the table turn to me, instead of feeling scrutinized and self-conscious, I feel unnaturally at ease. Cocky, even. I have a power over them that they can't take away from me. I must have smirked or huffed out an impetuous laugh, because Coin's first in command - Boggs' replacement - narrows his eyes slightly and scowls at my indifference. Coin is seated just next to him, and she turns her head slightly to one side as I enter, watching me suspiciously from the corner of her eye. It's the first time I've really seen her since my return from the Capitol, at least in such an intimate setting. I'd expected a request for a private meeting with her before now, or some conveniently planned chance meeting with her in the corridors, but none came. The most I'd seen of her were in the Collective, where she made announcements. It was a perfect arrangement of avoidance, and I'd been perfectly content with it.

I slip my hand into my pocket, rubbing the handle of the knife concealed there, and I stare coolly down at her. I won't even deign to greet her. _She_ called _me_ here; I've long since abandoned any use for the trivialities of preamble. She merely stares up at me, apparently expecting me to speak, but if she doesn't get to business within twenty seconds, I'm turning to leave. That is, if I don't lose my patience and scalp her first - make a wig out of that ridiculous grey hair if it isn't one already. Which is becoming more likely by the second. That she even has the audacity to look me in the eyes after she so dismissively sent the message of my expendability in the middle of a mission by sending a hijacked Peeta to join our squad is enough to make my blood boil. It's taking every bit of effort I have to not say something cutting, and I purse my lips to stifle the contemptuous lip curl that threatens to betray my expression of indifference.

"You're drunk," she says simply. There could be a hint of reproach in her voice, but she's doing a decent job of hiding it.

"How insightful of you to notice," I say softly, keeping my cool stare on her. I surprise myself by how venomous and seething my voice sounds, how much it rivals Snow's.

She indicates to the empty seat across from her. "Perhaps you should have a seat."

"I'd prefer to stand, thank you." My voice is cold and abrupt. I like being the highest head in the room. I like the ability to stare down my nose at her. I like the security provided by being on my feet, because that means if I need to use my knife, I've got more of a lunge behind my blow when I make a skin suit out of her.

There's a brief silence as we stare each other down, and a flicker of perturbed concession crosses her face. "Very well then," she says, matching my tone. "This will be brief, anyway." She signals to the new Boggs - his significance will never be consequential enough for me to bother learning his actual name - and he seems to relax, his muscles having been tensed as he sat poised in his chair, his hand at his hip as he presumably twitched for a weapon should he need to use it on me.

He's nothing like Boggs, which is as much of a waste as it is an expected disappointment. Boggs was too much of a threat. He was my enabler. He was too keen on Coin's deception to be considered anything short of a liability. She recognized the disadvantage of making that mistake again. Of course she would find someone easier to manipulate and control as his replacement. I keep my hand in my pocket, calmly stroking the smooth, finished handle of the retracted blade. One flick of my wrist, and I can have it out. One simple flick of my wrist, and it can be all over. I could deal a fatal strike to Coin in the time it would take any of these other soldiers to even get to their feet. A swift slash to Boggs 2's throat before he could draw his weapon or breach the obstacle of the table separating us. With two down, would the others in the room recognize my advantage and concede to my release, or would I have to kill them, too? I clench my fingers around the handle and remain still.

"Your requirements for being the Mockingjay are still the same, yes?" Coin asks. "You still require that it's you who kills Snow?"

I keep a steady gaze on her, and I hesitate before answering. Not a nervous hesitation, or an uncertain one, just a hesitation that allows me to stare contemptuously down at her, make an intentional uncomfortable silence. I want to make her nervous. People don't like silence. They especially don't like it when they're being scrutinized as if they're prey. This is particularly true about Coin. She's power-mad, and she loathes feeling vulnerable. Only when she shifts a little in her seat, one eyebrow raised and her lips pursed as she suddenly realizes what I'm doing, do I answer.

"Yes," I whisper. "I kill Snow."

 _And you_.

Honestly, at this point Snow is inconsequential. He's soon on his way out. He's old, and clearly in ill health. I can only imagine that if I hadn't been conveniently at Coin's disposal for her uprising, she would have merely waited for Snow's health to decline enough for her to take advantage, and would have taken his place by some means of infiltration, or exploited the chaos that would have ensued in the Capitol as they frantically raced about, attempting to restore order to the government. Snow will soon take care of himself. It's inevitable. My main concern is whoever is waiting in the wings to succeed him. Someone who is opportunistic enough to play on the emotions of the less privileged districts in order to rally them behind their cause.

"Then you'll still be granted that opportunity. Truth be told, you're the only compelling reason for Snow to come out of hiding at this point. He's going to be on his guard now, and our best bet is to lure him out, make him come to - "

"Bait?" I breathe, then I shake my head, laughing under my breath. "Oh, Alma," I sigh. She recoils a little at my casual use of her first name. I turn away, breaking my intense gaze from her for the first time, and I pace the length of the table, lightly dragging my fingertips along its surface as I go. "You know, you never would have been suitable for combat. You're just not...quick enough. You'll be pleased to know that we already went over that. We discussed luring him out during our last mission - Peeta, Gale and I. That option became too much of a liability when we figured out all the multiple scenarios that might play out - Snow might decide to have me executed publicly without even bothering to be present. He could kill me in the privacy of his mansion at his own leisure and then display me as a token of war. Or - and this one's my _absolute_ favorite - " I say with a shrewd smile, abruptly stopping my pacing as I come back to stand directly in front of her, wagging a patronizing finger at her, "he could capture me and torture me for information on you and Thirteen..." I slowly move forward, causing those seated in front of me to instinctively lean back in their seats - "...which I would give to him...easily. I mean, the Games _did_ break me after all...I can only imagine how readily I'll crack under duress." I say this with the simpering insincerity of a thinly-veiled threat, and I see her eyes harden as she recognizes it for what it is.

I'm definitely quicker than her. At least when it comes to recognizing coups and plots to attain an upper hand. And this is simply another plot to get me out of the way, by dangling some bit of emotionally-charged bait in front of my nose as a way of making me think it was all my idea in the first place, so it won't look suspect when I'm so easily taken out of the picture. Stupid woman. To think I'm weak and dense enough to fall for that. I'm still so angry at her first attempt to get rid of me, and the dismissive way in which she did it, that I have half a mind to not bother dealing with her at all - I should just let her and Snow kill each other off and sit back and watch the show. Playing those two against each other as much as they've played me seems a fitting riposte. I can see Plutarch beaming at me out of the corner of my eye, and I know it's not out of support but more out of the juicy show I'm providing for someone who will always ever be a Gamemaker, forever hungry for a spectacle. Superficial though his intentions may be, I guess he's the closest to a true ally I've got. I'll have to exploit his love of entertainment to make sure I maintain his loyalty. It should be easy enough. Coin's certainly too bland to hold his attention for long.

Coin is pursing her lips so tightly now that the age lines around her mouth are exaggerated. "It's not a concrete plan, it was just a suggestion to initiate discussion - "

Backpedaling. _Really_. I've had about enough of this sanctimonious bitch. I succumb to the white-hot rage unfurling in my chest and I lunge forward, automatically causing everyone seated on the opposite side of the table to frantically scoot back, the legs of their chairs grinding noisily on the floor as I whip out the knife I've been fingering in my pocket, giving one flick of my wrist to unfold the blade so I can stab it down into the table, just where Coin's hand had lain seconds before. Everyone stares in silence at the quivering handle, the only noise in the room being the rapid vibration of the settling blade.

"Then let me know when you geniuses come up with something better," I hiss.

I take my leave without being dismissed.

Stupid. That was stupid. That was a good knife. Now I'll have to procure another one.

 _I guess we've all been put on notice. About who's really in control and what happens if she's not obeyed. If you had any delusions about having power, I'd let them go now. Apparently, a Capitol pedigree is no protection here._

 _There is no comparison between Plutarch, who masterminded the rebel breakout, and those three beauticians._

 _If you say so, Fulvia. But what would happen if you got on Coin's bad side? My prep team was kidnapped. They can at least hope to one day return to the Capitol. Gale and I could live in the woods. But you? Where would you two run?_

 _Perhaps we're a little more necessary to the war effort than you give us credit for._

 _Of course you are. The Tributes were necessary to the Games, too. Until they weren't. And then we were very disposable._

I smile to myself, recalling one of the very first exchanges I ever had with Plutarch's team as a rebel. At the time, it seemed I was being harsh and unforgiving, cynical and alarmist. It was appropriate though, and I'd been right. It was the real me, struggling to get out. The person I am now was always there, waiting to strike. I'm sure Plutarch and Fulvia meant well, but no amount of anecdotal evidence or secondhand experience can ever get a native Capitolite to see exploitation and backhanded threats for what they are. They've lived a life too sheltered, they're too conditioned to automatically invest all their trust into anyone who lends a convincingly charitable hand. They were naive enough to assume that Coin's intentions in torturing my prep team was a favor - when in reality, it was a warning. And no amount of convincing could get them to abandon their denial. I couldn't much blame them. If I'd grown up in the superficial, magical world of the Capitol, where everyone was conditioned to accept lies and propaganda as truth, I'd have a hard time accepting the harsh realities of deceit, too. They were really just as childlike and innocent as my prep team. I could no longer consider a luxurious, Capitol life as one of privilege. If I were given a chance to start over, to choose my beginnings, I think I'd still choose Twelve. I don't like the prospect of being ignorant and weak. It makes me feel powerless, and the thought of it is particularly distasteful to me. I like being strong. I like being shrewd and perceptive. I like the way my world has hardened me. It means I could survive anything.

I hear hushed chatter as the door closes behind me, Coin mumbling something I can't make out, but Plutarch's response is audible and clear - "She's not unhinged, she's _pissed off_. Remember that she lost the very sister for which she did all of this to save. She lost the boy, _again_. The _girl on fire_ is pissed off." A pause for more mumbling. Then - "Uncharacteristic for whom? For the girl who shot an arrow at a room full of Gamemakers before she was ever even thrown into an arena? No, Alma - this is the girl you wanted. She's not changed. She just decided to stop holding back. Getting pissed off is the only thing that's ever really gotten her anywhere. It's in everyone's best interest to just...not provoke her."

I smirk a little as I hear the unmistakable sound of a blade being dislodged from a table, then realize I should probably disappear while I've still got the chance. Clearly nothing will come of my outburst, otherwise they would have detained me the moment I turned to leave, but I doubt my presence is all that welcome right now, either. I guess the Games are still on, and my necessity is still too great for Coin to dispose of me just yet as she would like.

 _I think...you still have no idea. The effect you can have. None of the people we lost were idiots. They followed you because they believed you really could kill Snow_.

I want to contemplate if the same would be true for an attempt on Coin's life, but I find I can't think clearly now, my mind clouded as I feel a tightening in my chest that makes it hard to breathe. I'm gasping and choking for air, and I sprint down the corridor and find one of my old hiding spots, where I can crouch behind a generator with my head between my knees, my hands protectively pressing against my temples as I remember one of my last moments with Peeta. He was starting to come back to me. The old, kind Peeta was starting to peek through. A ray of hope in an uncertain future. A single dandelion in a wasteland of retreating winter. I don't know where this came from, this flood of sorrow replacing what has been nothing but numbness since I returned from the Capitol. I cry for the first time since then. Well, sob, actually. I wonder how sound resistant these walls are. The last thing I want is to be found. Or worse, for anyone to see this moment of weakness.

It only takes a moment to get my breathing under control, for the last gasping sobs to exit my chest, and I've pulled myself together, focusing all of my attention on my rage, my contempt for Coin and Snow and everyone who knowingly contributed to their exploitative plans. I close my eyes and fantasize about how I'm going to kill them both, almost feeling the vibration of my bow in my hand as I train my arrow on one, then the other. Will I go for the heart, for an instant kill, or the throat, so they can slowly suffocate to death, drowning in their own blood? Definitely the latter. It will be more humiliating for them. Perhaps I'd even ask each one for a final statement, then release my arrow into their trachea before they have the chance to voice it. " _For you, Peeta_ ," I whisper, then I wrench myself from my crouched position and calmly make my way back to my compartment, taking another swig from the bottle Haymitch gave me and not caring if anyone of consequence sees it.

Johanna's nowhere to be found, and I uncork the second bottle of liquor, having already drained the other. The room begins to gently sway around me, so I lay back and stare at the ceiling, content to spend the rest of the evening in a catatonic void. I don't acknowledge the door opening some time later, but merely stare at the ceiling in a haze of determined concentration as I clench my teeth, fighting the urge to vomit.

"I figured you might want this back."

The voice is Gale's - and I turn my head in surprise, instantly regretting the abrupt movement. I wince as I feel a stab behind my forehead, but immediately snap my eyes open again, as having them closed only exacerbates the spinning sensation in my head. I squint at Gale's swaying figure, seated across from me on Johanna's bed, and he's holding my knife out to me. I'd reach out to grab it, but there seems to be two of them at the moment and I'm unsure I'll grab the right one. He seems to understand this and frowns before leaning forward to set it on the shelf near my bed. I was so focused on intimidating Coin that I hadn't even realized that Gale would be in that room as well, hadn't even acknowledged his presence during the meeting. Six weeks ago, I would have been mortified at Gale being privy to the display of frigid callousness I exercised in that room today...but now, I find his opinion rather inconsequential.

"I'm sorry you had to see that," I mumble anyway, having to use extra care in enunciating my words so that I don't slur incoherently. I want to ask him how he was able to convince Coin to return my knife or if he'd merely stolen it, but I find my tongue to be considerably uncooperative so I remain silent.

"She still needs you to supply the kitchens," he says, instinctively answering my unspoken question. "There's really no reward in disarming you, as much as she'd like to do it."

I give a single nod, then turn my attention back to the ceiling. I can still see his expression from the corner of my vision, and he's staring at me in bewildered concern. He looks like he expects me to say something, but I'm really not up for conversation right now. And I've never been one for sharing my feelings, so I don't know why he seems to expect it from me now. I actually kind of want him to leave. My patience for being around people in general has slowly dwindled, and every time I'm forced into some form of personal contact, I find myself growing bored and agitated by the second. Everyone seems to speak too slowly, or talk about things that are too trivial, or take too long to get to the point. It's taken every bit of restraint for me not to smack my hand down on the table in the dining hall at whatever insignificant thing someone has been blabbing at me when I just want to eat in silence.

"You know, I don't even know who you are anymore, Katniss," he says quietly, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands in front of his face. "That person in that room today? That person was unrecognizable. At first, all I could think was, 'She's Haymitch. She's officially gone down that road and she's become Haymitch.' Which I could have dealt with. After all that you've been through, that would have been okay. I could have accepted that. But this..." He breaks his gaze from me, shaking his head, and I glance at him from the corner of my eye to see a flicker of pain cross his face, as if he's fighting back tears. "Katniss, I used to look into your eyes and see an uncontrollable blaze of fire. But now? All I see is ice."

He doesn't wait for me to respond. He knows I won't. He knows I'll just continue staring at the ceiling as though I hadn't heard him at all. He just swiftly rises from the bed and leaves. I suddenly remember the conversation Johanna and I had in this very spot, the first night we moved in to this compartment.

 _The arena messed us all up pretty good, don't you think? Or do you still feel like the girl who volunteered for your sister? ...There's no going back. So we might as well get on with things_.

Yes. Yes, we might as well.

* * *

I show up for breakfast considerably hungover, and Haymitch and I practically mirror one another as we pick at our biscuits. It's a shame, as they've gotten remarkably better since Mr. Mellark's condition improved and he could devote his time to the kitchens without having any flashbacks. We've even been granted a rare commodity - real butter - and I have half a mind to pocket some of it for when I have more of an appetite and just deal with the consequences if I get caught. I'm at least grateful that the usual inane chatter that occupies our table has ceased for the moment. Gale is sullen and withdrawn, which already puts everyone in an awkward mood, and Effie has joined us at our table, her distant, vacant stares enough to unnerve anyone into silence. The only people who aren't radiating a shadow of solemnity are Mr. Mellark and my mother, who eat in silence but occasionally cast a warm smile to one another or make a small gesture that's only understood between the two of them. His memory is still shaky, but he remembers being the town baker and random interactions with some of the other tradesmen in Twelve - though still no memory of his family.

That is, of course, until the screens around the dining hall flicker to life, with reports on reparations being done in the Capitol from the destruction that's being blamed on the rebels. The anthem plays at a slower tempo in the background, its tune slightly altered so that it resembles more of a dirge, so that we can truly appreciate the grim nature of our actions. Stills of fallen members of Capitol society are shown, and I feel like I've been punched in the gut when Finnick is among them. This isn't out of respect. This is to mock us. To shove my failure in my face.

 _See what you did_.

Some woman drones on in a voice-over about what measures are being taken to restore the Capitol, to fortify the defenses, how to avoid another capture by the rebels. My attention is drifting away to the point of almost tuning out completely until the images of destruction are quickly replaced with a crowd of shouting fans as some celebrity or other swiftly walks through the sea of flashing cameras toward a waiting luxury town car. The anchorwoman narrates the uplifting news that prominent Capitol personalities are getting back to their normal lives, donating to this charity or that cause that has nothing to do with the suffering in the districts. The celebrity on the screen, her vibrant scarlet hair and lips almost causing a dramatic lens flare from the camera flashes, throws a placating smile to appease the photographers before placing a protective hand on the lower back of her male companion, guiding him gently away from the cameras and into the back of the town car. Just before the door of the car is shut behind him, he turns his head and flashes a conciliatory smile toward the photographers as well, and there's no mistaking it, as unrecognizable as he is in sharp Capitol tailoring and in undeniable good health - it's Peeta.

If there was silence before, it's no comparison to the silence now. Not even a fork scrapes against a tray. And it's not even limited to our table - the entire dining hall has settled into an unnatural stillness, and I feel all eyes turn to me. But then I realize that not everyone is looking at me - in fact, most eyes are trained on Mr. Mellark, who sits rigid in his chair, fork poised in the air halfway to his mouth, staring listlessly at the now-blank screens. My mother slowly leans forward and gently places her hand over his, which is clenched into a fist on the table. He doesn't react to the touch at first, but then his eyes suddenly become very clear and he whispers softly under his breath -

" _Peeta. My boy._ "


	5. Live the Life We Know

_.Peeta._

 _"...lignite, which is a combustible sedimentary rock used almost exclusively for steam-electric power generation..."_

 _I only halfway process the words the instructor in Coal Chemistry is saying, who doesn't even bother to lecture in an engaging manner but merely reads verbatim from a textbook. Only the Seam kids appear to be paying attention, and that's only because they have to out of necessity. Most of them will end up in the mines in a couple of years. I should feel sorry for them - and I do - but my attention is trained on only one. I gaze across the classroom at her, note the way the light hits her dark hair, the way her hand idly fidgets with the end of her braid as she rests her chin in her palm. She's the only Seam kid that isn't paying attention, and I get a good view of her strong profile as she gazes out the window. Narrow, straight nose, quaint, curving mouth. My hand moves deftly across the page as I idly shade the line of her jaw in the sketch I've been subconsciously penciling into my notebook since the beginning of class. For some reason, I edit a dandelion into her hair that isn't actually there._

 _"Peeta!" One of my friends hisses from the desk next to me, and I abruptly look up, annoyed at the distraction. "Will you let me copy your notes after class?" he asks._

 _I narrow my eyes, instantly slamming my notebook shut. Is he being facetious or does he legitimately think I've been studiously taking notes on lessons I'll never need? "I don't think they'll be very helpful to you," I say evasively, my eyes darting sheepishly back to the desk a couple of rows ahead of me, where_ she _sits._

 _Truth be told, there isn't a single note in this entire notebook. If anyone were to chance a glance beneath its cover, they'd find page after page of pencil sketches, of_ her _. Sitting at her desk doodling in the margins of her textbook, in the lunch hall leaning over her food tray as she talks to Madge Undersee, in the schoolyard after class, holding her sister's hand. I'd be forever mortified if anyone were to ever look inside this notebook. I shove it back into my satchel, pretending to pay attention to the lecture when really all I'm doing is staring at her, watching the back of her head and her occasional profile every time her attention is drawn back to the window. Then she turns her head and looks straight at me, and I'm embarrassed that she's caught me staring at her again. She's got that same scowl on her face, that same conflicted look in her eyes that's always dissuaded me from catching her in the halls and asking if she'd maybe like to hang out in the Meadow after school._

 _I'm about to nervously look away as I always do, but she suddenly bares her teeth at me, and they're all sharpened into fangs._

I bolt upright in bed, and my sheets are damp with sweat. The townhouse I've been awarded for my _services_ is luxurious enough, but it's in a high-rise building, and the panoramic, plate-glass windows don't open. The one luxury I'd like to have when I sleep is unfortunately something that can't be afforded to me. I press my palms to my closed eyelids, trying to erase the image of Katniss that floats behind my eyes. I've been relying on narcotics to assist me into a fairly dreamless sleep, but the occasional nightmare slips through sometimes. At least this one couldn't technically be considered a nightmare. It was of a fairly positive memory until my hijacked memories worked their way in.

I'd completely forgotten about that notebook until now. My brother had found it one afternoon after school, and he teased me about it and threatened to show it to our mother. I lunged for it and missed, but succeeded in following through with an effective headlock, pinning him to the floor with my knee in his back until he released it. He laughed as I thwacked him across the back with it in annoyance, but his face quickly settled into one of sincerity as he warned me of the consequences of keeping company with a Seam girl.

"You're being careful with her, though...right?" he'd asked with the conspiratorial protectiveness that only an older brother can have.

"Shut up!" I hissed, shoving the notebook under my pillow. "It's none of your business what I do." I was too embarrassed to admit I'd never even talked to the girl, especially to my brother, who was notorious for his multiple conquests behind the slag heap.

"What would you even do if you knocked up a Seam girl?" he asked, genuine concern in his voice.

 _I'd marry her_ , is what I wanted to say, but that wasn't an acceptable answer in that house, so I merely chucked a stale dinner roll at him.

Reflecting on that moment, I struggle to let memory recall how I felt then, but nothing comes through. I must have felt pretty strongly about her to have defended her honor to such an extent. I suddenly find myself inexplicably frustrated, and I'm a little disappointed that there's nothing nearby for me to throw.

I wearily swipe at the touch-activated LED screen that delivers my schedule and messages. STD screening and inoculation tomorrow morning. Party at Snow's mansion tomorrow evening; all Capitol-employed victors are required to attend. And today I've got Crispin Montgomery.

I suppose I favor him right up there with Sterling. Nothing will ever make me attracted to another man, but he isn't dreadful and I've come to legitimately care about him, so I try to make my visits with him as narcotic-free as humanly possible. I think if we'd met under different circumstances, we would have genuinely been friends. A part of me still considers him one anyway. He's only a couple of years older than me. His parents disowned him when they found out about his unconventional sexual preference.

There weren't a lot of queer kids in Twelve. If there were, they were discreet about it, but despite my lack of experience around them, I find something intrinsically flawed with the notion of casting someone off simply for loving the wrong person. To let that one trivial matter define the relationship you've built with your closest kin shows an egregious error in priorities. That anyone could even be so sanctimonious and judgmental that they consider themselves the utmost authority in defining what a proper relationship should be made me unreasonably angry. That a parent, no less, could treat their own child with such indignity and disrespect over a matter that shouldn't have anything to do with them.

I think I was so enraged over his situation because it paralleled my own relationship with my mother. That if she'd ever found out I had eyes for a Seam girl, I'd be out on the street as well. Another thing on which we connected - he'd been abused, too. On my first night with him, we weren't so much intimate in the physical sense as we were in an emotional one, comparing all the poorly healed contusions we'd sustained at the hands of our abusive parents. A poorly-mended bone that was broken and never tended to properly, a pattern of scars from a stray vase that had been thrown and cast off enough shrapnel to result in notable lacerations. While my mother had a lack of restraint, his father had a dependency on drink, and a severe, irrational hatred for men who prefer the intimate company of other men.

I guess it's no surprise that Crispin's father is one of my most regular customers.

I haven't taken any narcotics. I haven't even been under the influence of tracker jacker venom or morphling for a couple of days. I figure staying clear-headed for my more respectful clients is the smallest nod of appreciation I can risk awarding them, but I don't miss how jittery and fragile my entire body feels. How I feel like static is persistently running over my skin, how my heart feels like it's been replaced by a hummingbird, and when I raise my hand horizontally up in front of my face, it shakes uncontrollably until I clench it into a fist and snap it back down to my side in frustration. I close my eyes outside the door of his apartment and attempt to take several deep breaths to quiet my chemical-starved body, but it seems I can't get a satisfying lungful of air. I give up when I begin to feel dizzy and let myself into his apartment, as is our usual custom. He likes for it to feel real.

The charming smile I have in place quickly fades when my eyes fall to his unconscious form on the couch, his arm extended with the needle still in the vein, a rivulet of blood having traveled all the way down the inside of his forearm and ending in a pool of blood that's dried in the palm of his hand.

" _Shit_ ," I curse under my breath, rushing over to him and gently removing the needle from his arm. I take his face in my hands and turn his head toward me, noticing how his lips are pale and his skin is greying. I press my fingers to his throat and there's a thready pulse there, and his chest moves slightly with shallow breath, causing me to close my eyes and give a small sigh of relief. This isn't the first time he's tempted fate with overdose - though it's the first time I've witnessed it.

"Crispin," I say softly, my thumbs lightly caressing his cheeks as I will him awake. I don't want to deal with a hospital if I don't have to. I know I should, but I don't entirely trust the team of individuals who call themselves doctors here in the Capitol and I also don't want to risk a potentially humiliating situation for him. "Come on Crispin, open your eyes for me." With one thumb, I pull back one eyelid and inspect his pupil, but he quickly jolts awake and sits upright with such force that I have to quickly lean back to dodge him. He's disoriented and shaky, but thankfully conscious. I let out another sigh of relief and lightly place my hands on his shoulders, steadying him until he can regain his bearings.

"Deep breaths," I instruct, running my palms over his skin in what I hope will calm him. "Cris, look at me. Can you look at me?" He fixes frantic eyes on me and I give him a warm smile. "There you are," I say softly. "You scared the piss out of me." I look down, pursing my lips as I shake my head. "You've gotta stop doing this stuff, kid. It's gonna kill you one day." The irony of my advice isn't lost on me.

I see a flicker of pain cross his face out of the corner of my eye, and he looks down at the floor. "Nobody cares," he mutters.

Fuck. His father's been harassing him again.

I bring my palm to his cheek and force him to look up at me so he can see the sincerity in my eyes. " _I_ care," I tell him, and his face wavers as he holds back tears.

"That's only because I'm paying you to."

Of course it's a valid assumption, and I'd expect him to say something like that anyway, but it doesn't make the stab in my heart any less intense when he says it. I think he sees the conflict in my eyes because his expression falters into one of confusion. I pull him into a gentle embrace and stroke his hair, and his body cringes in my grasp with a suppressed sob. "That's not true and you know it," I whisper against his ear.

His arms reluctantly embrace me and he gives me a light squeeze. "If I were to stop paying for your services tomorrow..." His voice catches in his throat, and he doesn't finish.

"I'd still come check on you at our regular time," I say. It's not a platitude. I mean it. He has no one. It's the least I can do.

I used to be him, not long ago. I think back on all the times my mother made me feel like I was less than nothing. All the sleepless nights from throbbing pain caused by the injuries my mother inflicted on me. Never being able to find a comfortable position to lay in while my broken ribs screamed at me. How my brothers were too afraid to defend me and my father too busy to even know what was going on under his own roof. How the one small hope I clung to was unattainable and forbidden anyway. I think about how absolutely alone I felt then, weighing the options of suicide in the small hours of the morning, thinking about all the ways I could do it without leaving a particularly messy corpse for my family to clean up - and how I'd wished there could have been someone, anyone, with which I could share my pain. How I'd wished I could summon up the courage to talk to the dark-haired Seam girl, but was too humiliated at my situation, too afraid she'd see me as weak, to even dare meeting her eyes in the hallway outside class.

"Why?" he asks. "Why would you do that for me?"

I pull back and wipe the tears from his cheeks with my thumbs. "Because I've been where you are. No one should have to go through that alone."

His brows come together and his breath catches in his throat, and he allows the tears to overcome him. He falls back into my embrace, burying his face in my neck and crying softly as I hold him and continue to stroke his hair. He's so remarkably fragile, it's infuriating to think anyone would take advantage of his vulnerability. He's so unbelievably broken. It's only a small testament to the reality that even Capitol life isn't as privileged as they'd let you believe. Even as my emotions were dulled significantly from the torture Snow condemned me to, it's hard not to conjure my utmost sympathies for this kid.

"Let's go to bed, Peeta," he whispers.

I guide him off of my shoulder and softly kiss him. "Let's get you cleaned up first, hm?"

He nods and I easily lift him up - he's slender, and a little underweight for his height - and I carry him to the bathroom. I gently scrub away the dried blood on his arm with a damp cloth, and I can feel his reverent gaze on me as I lightly trace the perfect, parallel scars that run horizontally up the length of the inside of his forearm. All thick and pinkish in color, there are six of them on each arm, the remnants of one of the last nights he spent in his parents' house, when his father had used some particularly scathing words against him and proceeded to punch him repeatedly in the stomach that had him pissing blood for days. Alone and tense and unable to think of any other way to relieve the fear and angst built up inside him, he'd taken a butcher knife to his own arms and cut down to the tissue underneath. It would be the first of many instances of self injury, and I often come to appointments with him where he bears fresh cuts on his thighs and arms that I always immediately tend to with antiseptic and bandages without so much as a single word of questioning or judgment. I talk to him about it sometimes, but it's a subject I always let him bring up first.

I only fear the day I walk in to his corpse.

"You're truly a good guy, Peeta," he whispers, keeping his eyes trained on me as I dab at the needle marks in the crease of his elbow. "You're always so gentle."

I wince, suddenly feeling his words as an accusation. He doesn't know how I'm capable of strangling the person I'm supposed to love nearly to death. How I'm capable of writing someone off forever when not long ago, every one of my efforts were for the purpose of keeping her alive. How I'm so weak that I can't even overcome a feeble old man's manipulation.

 _You're not very big, are you? Or particularly pretty?_

Fuck, did I really say that to her?

"I'm not a good guy," I mutter to the floor. There's no way I can look him in the eyes right now. He'll see the monster inside me.

He rests a hand on my cheek and forces me to look up anyway. "You are. Hardened by the arena, yes. But the old, innocent baker's son that charmed the nation in that first interview with Caesar is still in there. I see him staring at me from behind those eyes sometimes. You're just afraid that your world has become too dangerous to let him out anymore."

I stare at him in silence, unable to find a proper response. What does one say to that? His eyes are sincere as he stares back at me, and I know he genuinely believes what he's said. There's no way he said it for my comfort. I don't need saccharine platitudes. I can't help but wonder if he's just saying it to placate his own turmoil, in desperate need for something happy in a life filled with nothing but hopelessness. I can't in good conscience take that away from him.

I force a smile. "Yeah. Maybe," is the closest to an agreement I can give, and I take him to bed.

He's too emotionally and physically drained for strenuous activity tonight, but he curls up against my side with his head on my shoulder, occasionally brushing his lips against my neck and running his fingertips through the fine hair on my chest, tracing the lines of my stomach and the trail of fair hair that runs in a line below my navel. The pills I take that ensure my virility are quite effective, and my body responds to his touch. I close my eyes when his hand wraps around my cock, and he works me with the expert precision of a male perspective. I feel his lips on my chest, brushing against my nipples, working down my stomach, and I moan when I feel his mouth brush against my cock. A moment of déjà vu flickers behind my eyes - a stolen morning in Twelve, a curtain of dark hair falling over me as her warm lips feel me out, tentative hands discovering new territory. My eyes snap open and I gasp as I raise up from the pillow, and Crispin smiles up at me.

"I haven't even started yet," he teases.

I pant shallowly and blink a couple of times to clear the vision from my head, then let my head fall back against the pillow. I close my eyes and she's still there. But Crispin's mouth is doing something magical to me, and somehow, the memory of _her_ isn't making me tense with the conditioning of my hijacking. Perhaps it's the juxtaposition of the memory of her with the pleasure I'm experiencing now. She isn't a fanged mutt, she's just her. Her tiny little mouth, unable to take all of me. _Ah, fuck_. I think I say it aloud, because I feel the vibration of Crispin's pleased _hmph_ against me as he continues working me with his mouth. Imploring grey eyes staring up at me, her soft hair beneath my fingertips, the heart-stopping image of that quaint little mouth wrapped around me. I feel the slightest graze of teeth against me and it's suddenly too real, and I barely have enough time to hurriedly warn him I'm about to come before I'm riding out my release in violent waves.

He crawls up beside me and leans on his elbow, smiling at me as he traces his fingers up my stomach and chest. "I wasn't sure you actually felt anything for her," he says. "I'd figured it was all an act."

I snap my head to the side and stare at him in mild horror. "What?" I breathe.

He gives a reassuring laugh. "You said her name. A couple of times."

My heart stops. _Fuck_. "I'm sorry - "

He shakes his head and presses his thumb to my lips. "You may genuinely care about me, but I know you're only into women. I always figured you were thinking about one whenever you're with me."

 _I was thinking about her_. She wasn't a mutt. She wasn't shiny. I experienced an orgasm and _I was thinking about her_.

One time during a wrestling match, my brother flipped me so hard onto my back that for a moment, I couldn't move or see, all I could do was try desperately to force my lungs to work, to reclaim the air that had escaped me. This is what I feel like now. With the vibrations of aftershocks still pulsing through my body, I conjure her image in my head again and try to feel...something. Anything. Orgasm. Katniss. Caves. Trains. Dandelions. Maybe I'm just convincing myself that there's a glimmer of something in the pit of my chest, but fabricated or not, it's gone in an instant, slipping away from me before I can even grasp it.

 _No. Come back_.

But there's nothing. I finally get a lungful of air and my breathing is ragged and shaky.

"Peeta?"

I can see Crispin staring at me in concern out of the corner of my eye. "No, I'm sorry. That was unprofessional of me," I say finally, my voice distant and hollow.

"Really, it's okay." He kisses my cheek and lays his head on my shoulder. He's asleep in minutes.

 _"Disgusting. I always knew you'd turn out to be a twink. That's what I get for wanting a girl so badly."_

That suffocating feeling tightens in my chest again as my head snaps in the direction of the armchair in the corner, and I see my mother sitting there, staring down her crooked nose at me with the expression one might wear when looking at a particularly repulsive insect. A strangled sound dies in my throat as I abruptly try to sit up, but Crispin's head is firmly on my shoulder and I don't wish to disturb him. I squeeze my eyes shut and open them again, and the chair is empty.

 _What the fuck._

My hands are shaking even more now, and my body feels fragile and fatigued. There's a hollow stirring of nausea in the pit of my stomach, and I clench my teeth as I concentrate on keeping it down. And now the hallucinations are starting. It isn't lost on me that blackmailing me with the lives of the people in Thirteen was a bit of a weak bargain for Snow, considering his own actions made me nearly emotionless, so he needed a contingency plan to ensure my loyalty - a dependency on the drugs he's so consistently had administered to me. I can only withstand the effects of withdrawal for so long. I wonder how long I can survive like this. I wonder how long before I end up like Crispin, passing out before I can even slide the needle out of my arm. I suppose it should be a consolation that I won't have to be a puppet for Snow for very long. I imagine my expiration date is quickly approaching at this rate. I think of my death and feel only indifference. I've had to think about it so many times in the past two years that it's become particularly mundane now.

 _"You love fucking him, don't you? Don't you, you fucking fairy!"_

"Yeah, well, he's not a bad-looking guy," I say acerbically to the empty chair.

Hallucinations turn to waking dreams as I drift on that precipice between sleep and consciousness, and every time I feel myself beginning to go under, I'm startled awake by the horrors waiting for me in the darkest recesses of my mind. I repeatedly jolt awake as echoes of flashbacks flit through my head - falling forcefully into the floor as a guard hurls me back into my holding cell, a paralyzing current of electricity charging through my body from sharp electrodes inserted into my thigh where the fiber optic cables run into my prosthetic, making the effect even more powerful than if I'd merely been flesh and bone. They'd fried the connections in my leg to the point where I couldn't control it anymore - only when I was taken to Thirteen was Beetee able to fix what they screwed up. And I'd still tried to fight him, as clouded as my mind was at the time, having to be heavily sedated just so I could be allowed to walk properly again.

 _"Lovely, isn't she?" One of the guards drags a young girl into my cell, and she makes a sort of strangled whimper that immediately tells me she's an Avox. He violently tears the clothes from her frail body, and holding her wrists together behind her back, he thrusts her forward, shoving her bare breasts in my face. "Look at her!" he shouts. I wince and he jerks her away as I hear the unmistakable sound of pants unzipping. Her sobs are a very sickening, muffled choking sound, and I try to look away but another guard roughly grabs my chin and forces me to face them. I clench my teeth as she's bent over the table, the guard's forearm pressed across the back of her neck, his foot kicking her feet apart as he reaches down between them. The sounds coming from her sound like an animal in pain, and the metal legs of the table bang loudly against the concrete floor with each violent thrust._

 _"That'll be you, if you don't cooperate," says the guard restraining me. He sees me blanch and laughs in my face. His breath reeks of rotting meat. "What's the matter kid, you never been buggered before?"_

 _The Avox girl is clenching the edges of the table so firmly that her knuckles are white, and her face is contorted in pain. This is as much of a warning as it is an excuse to violate this defenseless girl. He finishes with her, then wrenches her from the table and shoves her at me, and she comes stumbling into my chest, where I catch her and try my best to cover her naked body as she sobs._

 _"Would you like a turn now?" the guard asks. "We'll hold her down for you."_

 _I narrow my eyes as she shakes uncontrollably in my embrace. "That won't be necessary. Women come into my arms_ willingly _," I say caustically._

The resulting blow of the butt of the rifle to my face is what jolts me back to reality. Crispin sleeps peacefully next to me, his breathing soft and regular. He's migrated off of my shoulder in his sleep, and I find that the fading nightmare still clinging to my conscious mind is causing a considerable turmoil in the pit of my stomach. I wrench myself from the bed and dash to the bathroom, where I vomit profusely into the toilet. Whatever comes up is black and viscous, and I think back to the things I've heard from other victors who have been sold in the Capitol, how black vomit can mean internal bleeding. I close my eyes as I brace myself against the toilet. _Not yet. It wasn't supposed to happen so soon._ Addiction and withdrawal are supposed to take years to take somebody out. At this rate, I'll be dead in weeks.

"You haven't had a fix in a while."

I turn my head and see Crispin leaning against the door frame, and I immediately turn back and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, flushing the contents then rising up and hastily moving to the sink to clean up. Normally I wouldn't give two shits if a client saw me this way, my only concern being the professionalism of it - but with Crispin, I mind. I think he senses my embarrassment, because he comes up behind me and gently rubs his palm in the small of my back. I catch a glimpse of his expression in the reflection of the mirror, and it's one of sympathy and concern.

"Come on, Peeta," he says softly. "I'm an addict, too. I know what happens. The jitters, the night terrors, the nausea. It kills me to see you this way, because I know exactly what it feels like. You gonna be okay?"

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, giving him an unconvincing nod. He wraps his arms around my waist and presses his lips to the back of my neck, and I smile at the simple sweetness of the gesture. I may not be attracted to him sexually, but I at least don't have to fake my appreciation for displays of conciliatory affection. He's a good kid. He deserves a better man than I. Someone who can love him the way he needs to be loved.

"Come back to bed," he whispers. And I do.

 _I awake with a throbbing head and one eye is swelled shut. The Avox girl is curled up in the corner of my cell, still naked and crying softly. I find the remnants of her torn clothes and tentatively approach her as one would a frightened animal. I have to half-walk, half-drag my malfunctioning artificial leg when I cross the room, and it's clear that the erratic movement disturbs her. She cringes when I get within a foot of her, and I respectfully look away as I hold what's left of her clothes out to her. She gingerly reaches out and takes them, but she's sobbing and trembling so violently that all she can do is clutch the ruined fabric in her bloodied fingers._

 _I kneel down and take the clothes from her, making my movements as deliberate and obvious as possible, and I gently gather her up in my arms and wrap her clothes around her, letting her hide her nakedness in my embrace. Her face is bloodied and bruised, but now that I'm looking at her up close, it's clear she's very young. Still a girl. Perhaps around sixteen or so. I close my eyes and sigh, and she clings to me with the fragile abandon of someone too terrified and lost to know what else to do. She shifts uncomfortably and I look down at her, noticing the smear of blood on the inside of her thigh. I frown and arrange the clothes to cover her again._

 _"Were you a virgin before he did that to you?" I ask softly._

 _Her face creases with the onset of a powerful sob and she nods. I shake my head and bite my lip, doing everything I can not to voice every vile obscenity running through my mind. Not even an adult yet, and she's had her tongue cut out and been brutally raped in front of an audience. It's safe to assume the only touch of a man she's ever known has been one of violence. I keep my arms wrapped protectively around her and I idly stroke her hair as her crying gradually subsides, and her head falls against my shoulder as she finally succumbs to exhaustion, drifting off into a light sleep. I'm on the verge of something resembling sleep as well when the lone light bulb that dimly lights my cell flickers dramatically above my head, immediately followed by Johanna's guttural screams from the other side of my wall._

 _My body tenses violently and the Avox girl starts awake with a strangled cry of fear and surprise, and I hear the sound of rushing water as the light bulb flickers again. Johanna's screams persist, and I abruptly release the Avox girl so I can cover my ears. No matter how tightly I press my palms over my ears, I can still hear Johanna's screams as if she's right next to me. The Avox girl covers her ears as well, and I squint my eyes shut so I don't have to see every time the light flickers. It doesn't matter. I can still see the flashing behind my eyelids._

 _It seems to go on for an eternity when my door is thrust open again, and a guard roughly grabs the Avox girl and hauls her away just as another guard drags a naked Johanna in and throws her at my feet. She's soaking wet and shivering violently, but doesn't make any move to struggle or get up. I catch a glimpse of her eyes, and they're vacant and staring at nothing. The fierce woman from Seven that I knew in the arena is not here now. They've taken all the fight out of her. Now she's emaciated and fragile and terrified. I look up at the guard in disgust and confusion, merely awaiting whatever horror they've prepared for us this time._

 _"We're assembling the guards right now," he laughs. "I hope you two like performing for an audience."_

 _I don't want to think about what that implies. The guard laughs again, pulling his baton from its holster on his hip and pressing the end of it mockingly into my cheek. I instinctively slap it away and he kicks me in anger before turning to leave, slamming the cell door behind him with such violence that Johanna jumps into a sitting position from where she's been huddled on the floor. My first instinct is to reach out to her, to pull her into my arms, but she immediately cringes away, scrambling backward until her back hits the wall. I remove the plain white shirt I'm wearing, frowning at the blood stains on it as I hold it out to her, but she's too out of it to seem to be concerned about her nakedness. After some coaxing, the vacant look in her eyes subsides a little and she shifts her gaze to me, where I see nothing but cynicism and resignation. She makes no move to accept the shirt._

 _"It won't matter," she says, her voice hoarse from all the screaming. "We're both gonna be stripped naked in a minute, anyway." She sees my confused reluctance, and an odd, unnerving laugh sounds in the back of her throat. "They're going to make us fuck each other," she explains, and I tragically close my eyes when I realize the thing I was trying not to think about is sadly true._

 _If either of us refuses, what happened to that Avox girl will happen to both of us. I wince as I try to erase the image from my mind. Just the thought of that happening to me is humiliating enough. I'm a resilient enough person. I grew up being assaulted nearly everyday. But rape? I'm unsure that's something I can ever come back from._

 _It was hard enough being stripped bare in front of a room full of strangers. Harder still that they incessantly taunted and laughed at us, shouting requests at us for what they'd like to see us do to each other._

 _"Marcus, what would you give to have a cock like that?" Rude laughter, followed by shoving and mumbled insults amongst them. "Damn, kid. At least you've got that going for you."_

 _I try to block out their perverted comments, their crude observations. Johanna is at least pliable and cooperative, doing her best to help me maintain an erection. She obediently positions her arms above her head when they suggest I hold her down, makes a pretty convincing display of distress when I'm told to fuck her hard. They weren't particularly impressed by my tenderness. Genuine affection was not what they were looking for. I don't think I know how to be rough. I can't even fathom playing out a rape. It's repulsive and vile, and I keep holding back because I don't want to hurt or traumatize her any more than she already has been. I squeeze my eyes shut and finish as quickly as possible. Hopefully that's all they expect from us. I just want it to be over._

 _She's hauled back to her cell. I'm left alone and thankfully safe from sexual assault for another day. After what feels like hours sitting in silence and staring vacantly at the cracks in the walls, I hear her hushed whisper through the ventilation grate in the floor._

 _"Peeta. ...Thank you for at least trying to be gentle."_

 _I drop down to my elbows, dragging myself along the floor so I can bring my face close to the grate. "Johanna? ...I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."_

 _She laughs hollowly. "It wasn't too unbearable. And that's notable, since I only prefer having sex with women."_

 _Within any other context, I suppose this confession would have been a mild shock, but here, it's irrelevant and useless. Neither of us will ever be able to experience intimacy with anyone ever again. If we get out of here alive._

I jolt awake at the sensation of a hand on my face, instinctively locking a vise-grip around the wrist of the hand that touches me. I immediately let go when my eyes clear and I see Crispin looking down at me in concern, and I mumble an embarrassed apology as I sit up. I've stayed much longer than the time he's paid for, and I don't care. I do care that I'm significantly close to losing my shit and I don't want him to be anywhere near me when that happens.

"Are you sure you're okay, Peeta? I really feel like you shouldn't be alone right now, but I'm late for rehearsal," Crispin says. "Just say the word and I'll call and say I can't make it."

I hastily shake my head. I actually _really_ need to be alone right now. Then for some reason, my mind clings to a trivial detail of something he just said, and my head snaps up. "Rehearsal? What do you do, anyway?" It only just occurs to me that I've never asked him what he does for a living, how he affords the pleasure of my company, especially as young as he is.

He smiles, slightly sheepish but still proud. "I'm a dancer. I belong to the backup troupe at The Peacock."

This is something of a surprise. I've probably seen him perform. He could be any one of those graceful, masked dancers. "You work for Sterling St. Claire?" I ask, the surprise evident in my voice.

He nods. "She pays us very handsomely. I guess she can afford to, right?"

"Yeah...yeah, I guess she can." I feel like this coincidence should mean something, though it doesn't.

"Why, do you know her?"

I laugh. "Something like that."

He's silent a moment as he stares out the window, lost in thought. "You know, I can't help but imagine that the reason legends of sirens and vampires exist are because of women like Sterling St. Claire. She certainly does wield an unnatural power over people, don't you think?"

I nod slowly. "Yes. Yes, she does." And then a stray thought occurs to me, random and unexpected, surfacing so forcefully in my mind that I have to bite my tongue to avoid voicing it out loud.

 _And so do mockingjays._


	6. Don't Second-Guess the Buckshot

_.Katniss._

The silence is intense and suffocating. There's no eruption of accusation and gossip and vitriol from the rebels like last time. All eyes in the dining hall remain locked either on me or Mr. Mellark. There's a tension amongst the people sitting near him, as if they expect him to detonate any second. Everything suddenly seems heavy and lethargic and slow, and I become very aware of the ticking clock hanging on the wall at the far end of the hall. It's the only sound in the room, and it's deafening. For some reason I recall a memory from a night on the train, and in my head the sound of that deafening, echoing second hand morphs into the beat of Peeta's heart. It isn't until I begin to feel dizzy that I realize I've been holding my breath since the screens went black.

Mr. Mellark and I meet each other's eyes for a split second, and then he very slowly rises from his seat and calmly exits the room without a word. Still no one says anything after the door closes behind him. I can feel all eyes turned to me now, and my mother rises from her seat as well, hastily following after Mr. Mellark. I'm in the process of scooting my seat back and rising as well, but I freeze to my spot when I realize I have nowhere to go. Subjecting myself to a moment of hysteria hidden in a generator closet somewhere is not going to help me right now. Neither will slipping out of the fence and into the woods. What I need right now is information. A five-second glimpse of an immaculate, Capitol-polished Peeta could mean any number of things, but one thing is certain -

 _"You're alive."_

I whisper it to myself just as I did the last time Peeta was in the hands of the Capitol and broadcast to the nation. Only this time, the initial relief that floods through me is instantly replaced with something else - panic, fear...anger. This is clearly different from the last time. He's not being propped up in front of an audience as Snow's puppet in an effort to manipulate me. This isn't a carefully orchestrated propo meant to taunt me. This was merely a casual glimpse of a couple of celebrities, content and carefree and glamorous and whole. Peeta is no longer an accused rebel being tortured in the Capitol to hurt me. He's not a pawn in Snow's game to control me. Peeta is now a celebrity, whose biggest problem is the obnoxious, blinding flash of cameras on his way back from the opera.

"Katniss," Gale says gently. There's that voice again. That familiar tone he uses when he's about to finish off a wounded animal.

"Is it possible he's one of _them_ now?" I speculate quietly, more to myself than to anyone else.

Gale's silent for a long moment, and even though I refuse to look at him, I can still see his expression of bewildered concern as he stares at me. "I don't think that's what's happening, Katniss," he says tentatively. He stares distantly at the blank screen, as if silently working something out, then shakes his head and focuses his gaze on me again. "Do you remember what Finnick said? In his propo on the day we rescued Peeta? 'If a victor is considered desirable, the president gives them as a reward or allows people to buy them for an exorbitant amount of money. If you refuse, he kills someone you love.' Katniss, you saw the way he was dressed. The hair, the swagger, the carefully calculated smile. He's specifically engineered to seduce. ...And he's _still_ trying to keep you alive."

I'm unsure whether I'm more shocked by Gale defending Peeta, _again_ \- just as he did that first time Peeta was broadcast across the nation and calling for a ceasefire - or by the realization that he's right...again. The nausea I've been so painstakingly trying to stifle since I woke up is threatening to overcome me, and I push my untouched tray of food away from me in frustration. I have to dry-swallow a few times to force down the bile that's risen in my throat as I recall Finnick's detailed account of strange sexual appetites in the Capitol, appetites he was obligated to satiate. I can't help but think about how many women - men, even - that Peeta's fucked and I begin to feel so dizzy that I think I might pass out.

"Who do you think that woman was?" I ask, my voice detached and dry. I feel like all the air has been knocked out of me, and though I don't know the hierarchy of the government, my mind frantically tries to think of what she does for the Capitol, who she is to President Snow. ...Which of her secrets Peeta might know.

"I don't think you need to worry about her."

All heads at my table turn to the next table over, where Dalton, the cattle guy from Ten, sits alone as he casually eats his breakfast. He doesn't look at us, and he seems to be the only person in the room who isn't obsessively fixated on me and my reaction, or even in the least bit surprised or outraged about what just happened on the screen. He seems to grow a little impatient at our blank stares, and he continues, "Let's just say if he's keeping company with the likes of Sterling St. Claire, the odds are maybe a _little_ in our favor."

We continue to stare at him, waiting for him to elaborate, but he merely shoots us a bland glance as he stuffs the last of his biscuit in his mouth, then grabs his empty tray and takes his leave.

"What the fuck does that mean?" I whisper. I urgently whip around to Gale. "Gale, what does that mean? Who is Sterling St. Claire?"

He's vacantly staring into his food tray, his brow creased as he shakes his head. Then he pushes up from the table and motions for me to follow. "Come on. I need to show you something."

I'm too stunned to object, and I'm so desperate to get away from the prying eyes in the dining hall that I follow him out without question. He leads me back to his compartment, where he reaches beneath the mattress and pulls out a glossy magazine like so many of the ones that lined storefronts on my visits to the Capitol. It's tattered and dog-eared, and the date on the cover is two years back, so I know it's been circulated quite a bit. The fact that a fashion magazine from the Capitol could even make it to the districts is impressive enough. There's no way anyone outside the Capitol could have the means for a subscription. But when Gale opens the magazine and hands it out to me, I let out a small gasp.

It's the red-haired woman I just saw Peeta with, laying on black silk sheets, her vibrant ruby hair splayed out around her, wearing a dazzling emerald-studded corset and black thigh-high stockings topped with lace. Her green eyes hold a flicker of mischief as she gazes provocatively out at me, and she's suggestively holding a riding crop between her teeth. I flip to another page and it's her again, wearing an elaborate silver gown and sitting straight-backed atop one of the massive black horses that pull the chariots in the opening ceremonies of the Games. Another page has her corseted again, in an olive-green number that's fashioned to look like a military uniform, wedge cap slightly offset atop her head and a cigarette holder held gracefully between black-gloved fingers. I keep flipping through, studying page after page of this surreal Capitol woman who seems to be all thighs and cleavage and white teeth behind parted red lips, and wondering what her association might be with President Snow. Did he reward Peeta to her as a gift for her loyalty, or did she merely buy him?

I flip the magazine shut and chuck it onto Gale's bed. "What's the point of this, Gale?" I ask. I suddenly feel very tired, and I sink down on the bed.

"She's a pin-up model and performer in the Capitol," he explains very slowly, coming to sit next to me. "She's in fetish magazines that get circulated all over the nation - even in the districts. The issues are old by the time they get there, but she was circulated in the Hob quite a bit. Darius and I used to trade goods for her calendars every year..." He trails off, casting an apprehensive, sideways glance at me, gauging my reaction. I'm not angry or jealous, just impatiently awaiting relevant information. He takes a deep breath and continues, "I mean...I don't get why Dalton would say what he did. She's just a model and a dancer. A very wealthy one, but just that."

Gale's still staring at me with such an apologetic expression that it's almost painful. He seems guilty for having admired this woman's pictures, expecting me to be upset about it. I really can't be. Boys will be boys. I'm actually a little grateful that he's at least chosen something tasteful instead of the vile girly mags most of the Peacekeepers would toss around at the Hob. At least the woman in this one isn't completely naked or grotesquely splayed out with everything in view. I think about how Peeta is traipsing around with her, probably fucking her - and I'm oddly at peace with it. I replay the scene that just aired on the television in my head, about the protective nature with which she shielded him from the rabid camera crews. A small, easily overlooked gesture - but one that makes me think she can be trusted. I gingerly reach out and open the cover of the magazine again, this time trying to look at her objectively. I'm surprised to see that she doesn't have any of the cosmetic alterations that most fashion icons in the Capitol tend to have. She's just fresh and clean, and somehow I don't feel threatened by her. Is there a smugness behind her eyes? Perhaps I'm just seeing what I want to see, but there's a cleverness behind her gaze that hints of secrets untold, that perhaps I'm not looking at _just a model_.

"Gale," I say evenly. "Do you think Dalton was suggesting something?"

"What, do you think he knows her?"

I shake my head, closing the magazine once again and handing it back to him. "I think he knows _something_."

I'm exhausted. The relief I feel in knowing that Peeta's still alive, relatively safe and in good health, inspires such an overwhelming flood of relaxed lethargy that I feel I might just faint. In this moment, I'm not pissed off or spiteful or vengeful. I'm just relieved. I pitch forward into Gale's chest and he tenses in surprise, but instinctively wraps his arms around me.

"Are you still mad at me?" he whispers, stroking my hair.

I don't answer. I merely rest my forehead against his heartbeat, trying to sort out what I _do_ feel. Not that same twinge of suppressed longing I felt for him the day he said goodbye to me in the Justice Building when I volunteered for Prim. Not the sense of protectiveness and sympathy I felt when I kissed him as he was laid out on my kitchen table after being whipped in the square. Not even the dizzying surge of affection I felt for him when we were in District 2, and I was so starved for human affection that I yielded to his kisses despite how guilty I felt about Peeta's rehabilitation back in 13. But I feel a sense of peace for the first time in a while, and it's certainly an improvement from any other emotion I've recently felt toward Gale. Perhaps this is the first step toward me forgiving him.

"I've missed you, Katniss," he continues softly, his voice tense and uncertain by my silence.

"I guess I've just been _surviving_ a little too well without you," I mutter, my mouth forming the words before I've even had the chance to think.

And there it is. After I'd been doing so well. I've come to rely on my contempt and my spite for protection for so long that it betrays me even when I'm not consciously applying it.

" _Ah fuck_ ," Gale breathes, stiffening against me but continuing to stroke my hair. His arms give me a light squeeze, and when I pull out of his embrace, his expression is one of humiliated apology. "I'd thought you were asleep - "

"Yeah, well, I wasn't," I say icily.

"It was a ridiculously poor choice of words. You know that's not what I meant."

"Then why did you say it like that? Why was _that_ the first thing that came to your mind?" He gazes at me with such a pitiful, crestfallen expression that it softens whatever hostility is still lingering within me, but I don't let my face show it.

"We're never gonna be okay, are we?" he whispers. A deep crease is forming in the center of his brow, and for a second, his face mirrors the wounded expression I'd seen on Peeta too many times to count. And it feels like a stab in the heart, that I've inflicted this pain on the two people who care about me the most.

"Damn it, Gale, _don't_. I can't have you being like that. You're no good to me this way. I need you pissed off, like me. Otherwise, we're never gonna win this thing."

A flicker of hope crosses his pained expression, but it's gone in an instant. "Does this mean you're back in the game, then? Last I remember, you were giving up. What changed?"

I lean forward into his chest again, and this time he hesitates before bringing his arms back around me. There's that familiar scent of wood smoke, the heat of his lean muscles, the comforting tempo of his heart. I guess I've missed him a _little_. Being this close to him again reminds me of our old days hunting in the woods back at home, and though I've never felt truly _safe_ since I was thrown into the arena, I can at least easily grasp the memory of what it felt like to feel marginally secure again. I feel myself quickly slipping into a light sleep, and I begin to let it take me under.

"You know we have to go back for him," I say, my words slurred with drowsiness.

He gives a small, sad sigh. "I know," he whispers, just before I drift off to sleep.

I dream of the afternoon Peeta and I spent on the roof of the Training Center, the day before we were thrown back into the arena. The scent of the garden and the melodic tinkle of the wind chimes are so vivid that it seems real, as is the chill that runs over my skin as Peeta toys with my hair, the soothing touch of his fingertips against my scalp relaxing me into sleep.

 _I wish I could freeze this moment, right here, right now, and live in it forever._

He took me in the shower that night, and again after he'd carried me to bed, and again from behind with my palms and cheek pressed flat against the panoramic windows overlooking the skyline, not wanting to waste a single moment of the short time we had left together. I'd lain in his arms between bouts of frenzied lovemaking, my fingers tracing the line where his flesh fused with his prosthetic as he explained the details of its mechanics, told me how the top robotics engineer in District 3 had designed it to be water resistant and much stronger than a normal leg. At first it had horrified me, seemed too unnatural on a human body, but I quickly became intrigued by the intricacies of its design, which included phrases like 'advanced polymers' and 'shock-absorbing buffers.' And somehow it had gone from freakish and disturbing to impressive and sexy, an almost mystical wonder that a cybernetic device had replaced part of his body.

"Where does man end and machine begin?" I'd asked in detached fascination, pressing my fingers into the vein-like black lines that ran beneath his skin and into the lightweight metal of his leg. I'd wondered how far up the fiber optic strands went, where the hairlike cables gave way to actual nerves. He'd laughed and guided my hand all the way up to the seam where his thigh met his hip, and I gasped as he pressed my fingertips there, feeling a few small, hardened nodules beneath the flesh - cybernetic implants that served as waypoints between the cables and his nerve endings.

"That's an interesting way of putting it," he mused. "'Man or machine - a prelude to existential crisis.'"

Of course he'd faithfully maintained his wry sense of humor, even as we were faced with our imminent death.

 _So what should we do with our last few days?_

 _I just want to spend every possible minute of the rest of my life with you._

I memorized the way he felt inside me, the gratifying soreness of him stretching me apart, his hand in the small of my back and his heart pounding against me as he held me to his chest for every slow, deliberate thrust. Every detail of that night is played out perfectly in my dream - the glistening sheen of sweat on his bare skin, the flex of his shoulder muscles as he braced himself against the headboard, the heated passion in his eyes as he gazed at me in the dim light filtering through the window. I'd climaxed so many times already that on the fifth or sixth time around, I couldn't get there. I was so embarrassed and frustrated, so afraid that Peeta would take it personally, that when I felt the unfamiliar pleasure of his finger sliding into my bottom, sending me into immediate vibrations of release, I was too overwhelmed with ecstasy to be embarrassed by an act that might have otherwise horrified me.

I'm grateful that Gale is gone when I wake up and that he's mercifully pulled a blanket over me, because my hand has migrated down between my legs in my sleep and I seem to have been rubbing myself for some time. The wetness that has accumulated there threatens to soak clean through my pants. However complicated the relationship between Peeta and I may be, it's at least fortunate that he's so sexually adventurous. A morbid part of me thinks there's some hope for him, that this is probably saving his life in the Capitol right now. I consider finishing myself off, but the impoliteness of rubbing myself out to thoughts of Peeta in Gale's bed isn't lost on me, so I hastily leave the compartment.

I need to see Mr. Mellark, anyway.

I rush by my own compartment to change into a fresh pair of underwear and pants, and Johanna's laying on her bed, staring listlessly at the ceiling. I realize I haven't seen her in a couple of days, and when I shoot her a mildly quizzical look, she dryly mutters "Overdose" and I give a single nod. As if the track marks up the insides of her arms weren't a clear indication of that inevitably happening. At this rate, she'll be living in the hospital again, but she'd fare much better there than she would with me. I can't help her. I wouldn't even begin to know how. But I truly hope she doesn't die.

I hesitate for a moment at the door, suddenly at odds with leaving her alone. It's not a good idea, but I can't much take her with me everywhere I go. Then I hear a familiar, questioning warble from outside, and I throw the door open to see Buttercup pacing the space in front of my compartment. There are faint claw marks at the base of my mother's door across the hall, and I feel a lump rise in my throat as I realize he's still looking for Prim. I can't deal with this right now.

I snatch him up and deposit him on the bed next to a confused Johanna, whose mind is still too clouded by detox to really object or even make sense of the furry creature that's just imploringly climbed onto her stomach. I watch them for a moment through a haze of tears as her shaking hand tentatively reaches up to stroke his head, and she gives a small smile as he begins to knead her stomach with his paws. _Stupid cat_. I swallow hard and hastily leave. I don't have the time or energy to expend on emotions right now.

I enter the hospital wing and a medic glances up from his clipboard at me with a bored expression, gesturing toward a partition at the far end of the ward. I nod and let unsteady feet guide me to the curtain where two shadowed figures hunch toward each other, and I hear hushed voices as I approach. I slow my pace, not wanting to interrupt but realizing the only other alternative is eavesdropping.

"...wanted to go to you, to comfort you. You were in so much pain when he died," comes Mr. Mellark's subdued, gentle voice from behind the curtain. I'm so shocked at how calm he sounds, when I'd expected hysterics or catatonia, that the rudeness of my eavesdropping is completely forgotten. There's something else, too - something about the way he speaks to my mother that gives me pause, and I realize it's because there's a tenderness to his voice that Peeta always used with me, especially when he was confessing his feelings.

I've clearly walked in on something remarkably heavy, and private, but I can't bring myself to leave.

"I would have taken my sons and left her, for you," he continues. My breath catches in my throat. I really should not be here. "I never wanted you to be alone."

There's a stifled gasp that's hinged on what might have almost been a sob, and I see my mother's silhouette raise a hand to her face, possibly wiping at her eyes. "I wasn't in a very good place back then," she says, an undercurrent of guilt and shame in her voice. "I abandoned my own daughters. I wouldn't have been a healthy companion to you."

Mr. Mellark gives an ironic huff. "And my wife _was_?" I see my mother's shadow awkwardly look down, and there's a tense silence. "I'm sorry," he says, his voice taking on a chastised softness. "I just wish I could have let you know somehow that I would have been there for you. I wanted to comfort you when Katniss volunteered for the little one, too. We've both lost children. At least let me be here for you now, as you've been for me."

I watch their silhouettes fall into a warm embrace, accompanied by the muffled sound of suppressed weeping. Do their lips meet? It's hard to tell from the ambiguous shadow, but I don't want to think about that. I need to go. I can still slip away without being noticed. I begin to slowly back away, but my escape is thwarted when my back slams into the approaching medic who had previously directed me this way, and we awkwardly fumble with one another before he shoots me an annoyed glance and disappears behind the curtain with a sedative for Mr. Mellark. I immediately duck away out of sight as the curtain is swept aside, not wanting to give away that I might have heard any part of their conversation.

There's a short, muffled exchange between them, and then I hear the medic tell my mother that she's needed in triage at her convenience. The medic leaves and I tune out the rest of the departing exchange between my mother and Mr. Mellark, backing as far into the wall as possible when she hurries out, hastily wiping her eyes as she goes. I linger there for a long moment, awkwardly deliberating on slipping away now that I've got a clean escape, but I'm so preoccupied by what I just heard that I remain rooted to the spot. _He would have left his wife_. I've no love lost for the shrew, but he would have abandoned her entirely? ...And would have raised Prim and me. With his sons. I close my eyes against the thought of what that might have made Peeta and me to each other, and I'm a little grateful that propriety and instability kept that from happening.

"You can come in now, Katniss," says Mr. Mellark from behind the curtain. I'm startled by the calm, welcoming tone of his voice, and I wonder how long he's known I've been here.

I slip behind the partition and his expression is somewhere between apologetic and conciliatory when he looks up at me. I'm too embarrassed to meet his eyes, and I sink down into the chair in the corner and stare down at the floor, having no idea what to say to him. I want to ask him to expound on his relationship with my mother, how he would have dealt with the social fallout of divorcing his wife and taking in two Seam girls, how such a reliably kind man could abandon a wife - regardless of how cruel and terrible she was - with such ease, but the insensitivity of assaulting him with an interrogation at this particular moment isn't lost on me.

"How much do you remember?" I ask instead. I chance a glance up at him, and his eyes are rimmed in red, but otherwise he looks okay.

"Everything," he whispers.

I want to reassure him, tell him that as long as Peeta's still alive, something can be done, but I'm still preoccupied by the exchange I just heard between him and my mother. " _You would have just left her?_ Just like that?" I ask impulsively. He doesn't look surprised by my question, so it confirms my suspicions that he knew I was hovering outside the whole time.

He fixes sober eyes on me, and I see a flare of heated anger behind them, and possibly insurmountable pain. "She killed my other two sons," he says, his voice low and even. "The day the fire bombs were dropped on Twelve, and that Seam boy you used to hunt with ran around to gather everyone for evacuation, she wouldn't go. She said he was just trying to gather rebels for a riot, that no rowdy Seam rat should ever be trusted. I knew there would be no convincing her, so I merely placated her and told my sons to sneak off with the crowd and meet me at the fence. I'd thought they were just behind me, in the throng of escapees from the Seam. When the bombs dropped and I was still alone, I pressed my apron to my face and ran through the flames and the smoke to go find them. My bakery was engulfed by the time I got there, and I could hear my sons screaming as they tried to claw their way out. She'd barricaded the doors and windows from the inside. ...I listened to my boys get burned alive."

I stare at him in horror, wanting to tell him to stop, that I don't want to hear any more, but I can't find my voice. I wonder if he's so calm and detached because of the sedative he was just given, or if it's because he's been so emotionally traumatized at this point that he's expended every bit of grief and distress he may have ever had. Whatever sympathy I may have previously felt for Mrs. Mellark is completely dissolved now. _She killed her own children_. For what? Spite? I'm silently grateful that Peeta wasn't there when that happened. I nearly lose myself to hysterical laughter as I realize he was safer in the hands of the Capitol than he would have been with his own mother.

"You know she used to beat Peeta," I whisper, unable to draw breath enough to really speak.

Mr. Mellark's jaw flexes as he clenches his teeth, and he gives a curt nod. "Yes. But I didn't find out until after he was reaped. I'd always thought that whatever bruises or contusions I saw on him were from wrestling matches, or times when he and his brothers got a little too rowdy. Peeta was always the type to suffer in silence, so I never even knew about all the broken bones he sustained. He hid it well. It wasn't until after I said goodbye to him in the Justice Building that my oldest son told me everything. I confronted my wife about it and she became hostile and blamed me. She'd seen it as a failure that I'd given her three sons instead of the girl she always wanted. After three attempts, I guess she just took it all out on Peeta. Of course all the contempt and hatred she had for him was completely gone once he became a victor. He saw right through her, though. It's why he moved into the Victor's Village alone. I couldn't leave the bakery, and I certainly wasn't going to expect him to invite her along. He deserved his freedom...short-lived though it was."

I make a shrill sound that's somewhere between a sob and a hiccup, and I clamp my hand tightly over my mouth for a moment as tears spring to my eyes. There's something so devastating about what Mr. Mellark just said, even though it's said in a monotone, that I feel myself on the verge of falling apart. I haven't felt this fragile since I watched the bombs take out Prim. And even then, I was so drained of emotion that I couldn't show it, no matter how hard I tried to make the tears and hysterics come. I think it bothers me so much because Mr. Mellark is almost a reflection of myself, a shell of a human being who hasn't enough tears to give to a world that has taken everything away from them. The hollow look in his eyes, the flat tone of voice, the deadpan delivery of events that should be too painful to recount - it's too familiar to me. Combined with having just seen Johanna and the imploring, nagging attention of Prim's cat who doesn't understand that his owner is never coming back, I feel I might shatter into a million pieces. I instinctively wrap my arms around my chest, as if I might literally hold myself together.

"So what did you do after the bombs dropped?" I choke out, wanting anything to distract me from losing the composure I've worked so hard to maintain.

"The district was going up quick," he says, his eyes glazing over as he returns to some haunting place in his memory, that deadened expression returning to his face. "I don't remember fleeing to the woods, or how long I stayed there. I was on autopilot for days, possibly. I couldn't find the other survivors. I'm not sure I even wanted to. I don't remember trying to look for them. I vaguely remember stumbling back into town, after the planes left and the fires began to die down, with the mines still vomiting clouds of black smoke and the smell of charred earth and death making it difficult to breathe. I returned to what was left of my bakery, and the embers from the melted ovens were still glowing. I found the ashen husks of my sons, clutching one another in a corner. I spread them to the wind, and when I found what was left of my wife, I just left her there. I took to the woods again and wandered for I don't know how long - the hovercraft from Thirteen had already come and evacuated the survivors, and I'd missed it. I don't think anyone even noticed I was still alive during the initial exodus to the Meadow. There were...rovers, though. In the wilds between the districts. Here and there, I encountered them. People who just didn't want to be under the Capitol's control, and wanted no affiliation with a district or the threat of reapings, so they survived on their own in the woods."

"So it _is_ possible..." I gasp, my heart quickening at this new information.

"Don't," he says, shooting me a grave, warning glance. "I know what you're thinking. I'd think the same thing too, if I had your survival skills. But it's bigger than that now, Katniss. We all still need you. But yes, it is possible. These people helped me stay alive, pointed me in the direction of 13 in the hopes I'd find other survivors from my district. I was so dazed that I don't think I was really consciously functioning. Only idly motivated by this one vague objective lingering in the back of my mind that somehow miraculously brought me here. But you can't think about running. You understand that, don't you?"

I nod. I understand. If only I'd had this information a year ago. How many people are out there? How many citizens of Panem are unaccounted for? Children born who will never have to worry about their name going into a reaping ball, parents who will never have to worry about watching their kids get slaughtered in an arena. I can only imagine the punishment they risk at getting caught, though. Still, it seems the odds are a lot better for the people who live between the districts. It's an uplifting fantasy to entertain, at the very least.

"Katniss," Mr. Mellark says softly, and the abrupt change in his tone causes my eyes to dart to his face. "There's something else I wanted to talk to you about." He inhales sharply and then lets out a strained sigh, as if trying to find the best way to express what he's thinking. "Your mother and I..." He trails off when he sees my frantic expression, and I think he senses my embarrassment because he frowns a little and looks down. "I've loved her for a very long time," he says simply. "I can't help but think this is an opportunity to start over and indulge all the might-have-beens. Just know that I would never, ever endeavor to replace your father. I could never do that to you, since I respect you - and him - way too much for that."

I shift uncomfortably in my seat, unsure how to respond. I give a small shrug and fix him with a defeated expression. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I won't do anything without your blessing."

There's that dizzying moment again where I see a reflection of Peeta in Mr. Mellark's sincerity and politeness, and I have to immediately look away. That he even had the decency to ask me in the first place is admirable enough. "She deserves happiness. I think, right now, you might be the only person who can give her that."

He smiles. "Thank you."

I rise from my seat, feeling like there's so much more to say but unable to make my mind focus long enough to form a coherent sentence. I stop just as I'm about to duck through the curtain, turning my head over my shoulder. "Mr. Mellark? Know that I'm going to do everything in my power to get Peeta back."

* * *

I don't remember the elevator ride back to my wing, or the walk back to my compartment. All I know is that I can't get to the bottle stashed in my bottom drawer fast enough. The hollow queasiness of the morning's hangover still lingers in my stomach, but the need for the blissful oblivion brought on by inebriation is a more pressing matter. The aroma of the liquor as I uncork the bottle is enough to make my stomach lurch, but after I've gotten the first shot down, it goes a lot easier. The urge to vomit immediately subsides, and I feel a small bit of my appetite return. I collapse on my bed and numbly stare across the room at Johanna, who sleeps peacefully with Buttercup purring on her stomach. They're better off with each other for support than I ever would have been.

"I'm sorry I'm so fucked up," I whisper to them, and soon I've drained the last of the bottle Haymitch so graciously gave me and somehow I'm still not drunk enough for the morning's events.

My clouded mind keeps constructing vivid images of the things Mr. Mellark told me - too easily done, considering I was just in the ruins of Twelve not long ago. I remember the charred bodies, the partial bones that crunched underfoot, the sickening smear of soot as far as the eye could see. It's too easy to picture his sons, fragile ashen sculptures, frozen in their last moments of terror and agony, then disintegrating with the vibration of his approaching footstep, only to be devoured by the ensuing breeze. I can too easily conjure up the charred smell he described, imagine too clearly the unsettling images of the gaping voids of the mines, still glowing with fires that will likely burn for decades. Coal seam fires are impossible to extinguish. We learned all about it in school. It was a wonder the explosion that killed my father didn't devastate Twelve, considering how easily it would have been to reignite brush and vegetation on the surface, how the ground above could collapse into a sinkhole and forever cut off the entire country's supply of -

 _Twelve is devastated_.

I don't remember actually laying down, but I shoot up into a sitting position so abruptly that I nearly hit my head on the shelf above my bed.

Twelve is devastated.

This was obvious before, when I visited my district a month after it was evacuated and destroyed, but I was too preoccupied with the guilt and the desperation of having caused the death of so many people that it never occurred to me what that might actually mean. What the significance of the loss of Panem's primary coal provider actually meant. Coal is an energy resource. It's the primary source of energy for the generation of electricity. It has been for centuries, even before the Dark Days, even back when Panem was still something called North America. I know this not only because we were lectured about it in school ad nauseam, but also because some of my neighbors in the Seam accompanied the deposits that were mined and shipped off on the train to District 5. They spoke of the amazing technology there that harnessed solar and hydroelectric power, but that they were still primarily dependent on coal, which is why workers in Twelve seemed to work the longest hours of anyone in any of the districts. As poor as Twelve was, and as overlooked and small as we were, we were likely the most crucial in the survival of the nation. Ironic that we so rarely had electricity ourselves.

And now Twelve is a wasteland.

I shoot up from my bed with such force that I startle Buttercup into fleeing under the small desk against the wall. I stagger a bit as the vertigo hits me, suddenly realizing that I'm much more inebriated than I'd initially thought, but I can't worry about that right now. I need to speak to Gale. I want to think he's already entertained this idea, but something tells me he hasn't. He's always been so focused on a rebellion that he hasn't realized that half the work is already done for us. I wish there was a more effective way of communicating with others in Thirteen, because I have no idea where to find him and I'm too frantic to even think about what time it is or remember what his typical schedule was. It's a fortunate accident that I slam right into him just outside Command, and he has to steady me with his hands wrapped around my shoulders so I don't go careening backward onto the floor.

"Gale," I pant. "I need to talk to you." I try to fix him with my sincerest expression, but it's difficult to focus my eyes so I squeeze them shut for a moment as I sway on the spot.

"Katniss...are you _drunk_?" he asks in mild disbelief.

I sigh, realizing how this must look. "Yes," I admit hastily. "But this is important. Just listen. Gale, _Twelve is gone_."

He stares at me in concerned silence, his fingers tightening their grip around my shoulders, and I see a flicker of pain cross his face before he looks away and sighs. "Fuck, Katniss. Come on, let's get you into bed."

He begins to steer me back down the hallway but I resist and shake him off. "No, Gale, you don't understand," I say impatiently. "Twelve is gone. _There's no more coal_. The mines will be condemned for decades."

Gale immediately ceases his efforts to commandeer me back to my compartment, and his arms go limp at his sides as understanding settles grimly onto his face. We stare at one another in silence for a long moment, and then he reaches up and gently guides me through the door of Command, where all heads - including Coin's - whip up to face me. I don't even look at them. I don't address them when I speak. I'm talking solely to Gale.

"I'm listening," he says steadily, easing me down into a chair as he takes a seat facing me.

"Remember Leevy's dad?" I say slowly, taking extra effort to enunciate my words so I'm coherent enough for him to understand. He nods. "He used to accompany the payloads to Five, and he would always come back and tell us that their solar and hydro power weren't producing enough output to match up to the demands of coal. That's why they kept extending your hours in the mines. So what are they going to do now? You'd think their reserves are probably dwindling now, with a complete halt in production."

"Katniss," he whispers, a hopeful glint flashing in his eyes. " _'The Capitol's fragile because it depends on the districts for everything,'_ " he repeats, quoting what I said in my propo the night he rescued Peeta and the other victors.

I hastily snap my fingers as I recall something else, a vague memory from Thirteen lessons I rarely attended, but I've got everyone's attention now and I'm picking up steam, so I continue - "And that day in War Tactics, what was it they said? Something about how if you want to cripple a nation, a city, anything - you attack its infrastructure. Halt commerce, disable the ports, take out communications and - "

"Cut the power." We say it in unison, and his face slowly breaks into a grin. "Katniss, you're a fuckin' genius." He takes my face in his hands and I don't resist his kiss. I'm actually drunk enough that I kiss him back.

"So, what are you suggesting?" Coin asks.

I don't look at her. I keep my eyes locked on Gale's when I answer. "We go to Five. Destroy what's left of the coal reserves."

I see the vague motion of nodding out of the corner of my eye, and I hear Plutarch mumble under his breath, "Five has been compliant so far, it shouldn't be a problem."

There's a short silence, and then Coin rises from her seat and retrieves something from a locker behind her and holds it out to me. I tear my eyes away from Gale and stare blankly at the neatly folded uniform that she holds out to me, one that's a little more decorated than the one I used to wear in training. One that looks a lot like the one Boggs used to wear.

"Pardon the lack of ceremony or fanfare, but I figure this is as good of a time as any. You're one of the only soldiers left who still knows how to fight. Let's only hope you make it down to training more often, because you have plenty of soldiers who could use your instruction. Enjoy your new stripes, Commander Everdeen."


	7. Make the Rules Up As We Go

_.Peeta._

I sedately watch the medic's hand as she depresses the plunger, introducing a fresh dose of altered venom into my bloodstream. It burns as it enters my veins, but it's nothing like the excruciating pain from when I was stung in the arena or the pure form of it that was used during my torture. The burn immediately subsides and I'm hit with a momentary sense of vertigo, the world going shiny and holographic around me before dulling to a soft, hazy glow. It's become more of a relief than it is a high now. The tremors in my muscles subside and I feel my heart return to something resembling a normal tempo, morbidly aware of the fact that I'll likely never be comfortable again unless I'm shot full of drugs. So much for sobriety. I wouldn't be able to quit, even if I wanted to. If I ever missed one of my mandated appointments with Snow's doctors, I'd be right back in the torture chamber.

"You always watch."

I slowly shift my gaze to the medic as she withdraws the needle from my arm, raising one eyebrow. "Pardon?"

"Most cringe away from the needle. You always just stare."

 _Because I'm too perpetually fucked up to feel anything._

"Mm," I grunt with a slight nod, keeping my eyes on her as I reassess my focus. She's young. I wouldn't imagine much older than me, though with the Capitol's wealth of cosmetic enhancements, there's no telling. She's distinctly pale, so her dark hair and eyes dramatically contrast with her features, making her appear a lot more innocent than she probably is. I've come to tolerate her more than the other faceless medics that tend to me, but only due to her familiarity. It's usually her that tends to my routine check of vitals and blood work.

I realize I'm still steadily staring at her, because she shifts uncomfortably under my scrutiny and her eyes dart away as she busies herself with the trivial task of straightening the forms on her clipboard. Her unease does nothing to make me relent - in fact, it makes me stare harder, a trace of a smirk tugging one corner of my mouth. A year ago, I might have nervously looked away and mumbled an apology. But now? I feel a predator stir inside me, something that feeds on shyness and uncertainty. _Do I make you uncomfortable? I want you to feel me watching you, even after you've left the room. Think about me when you're alone in your bed tonight, darling._ I calmly watch her as she peels off her latex gloves, studying the minor nuances of the way she moves, how she wears her hair, her repetitive nervous gestures. My job has trained me to gauge reactions, to size up a person's sexual quirks in an instant. I don't miss how she crosses one foot over the other, tightly clenching her thighs together as she stands against the wall and hastily scribbles on her clipboard.

"Why do you always avoid my eyes?" I say softly. "Do I make you nervous?"

She stiffens and the scratching of her pen halts abruptly, but she keeps her eyes locked on her clipboard, as if this one thing might save her life. Then she continues scribbling for a brief moment and clicks the end of her pen with a little too much force, returning it to her breast pocket before shooting me a quick glance that still doesn't quite meet my eyes. "I think we're all done here. You're free to go as you like," she says in a rushed voice, hastily making her way to the door.

"Were you already corrupt before you got this job, or is Snow just paying you that much to compensate for the moral trauma?" I ask, my voice cunning and shrewd. I keep the seductive purr in for good measure, and I don't miss the tremble that she tries desperately to hide as she slows to a stop just before the door.

This time, she meets my eyes. I'm fairly sure that's never happened. They're wide and seemingly terrified, the look of defenseless prey. I feel my nostrils flare as I draw a deep breath from the intense gratification I feel at having prompted this reaction from her, and can I smell her fear? I give a small chuckle and finally break my gaze from her.

"Ah, well, that's unfortunate," I mumble. It could refer to either scenario, but I'm not sure I really mean it, or care. I really just wanted this reaction, and I'm fairly pleased with myself.

"Hey - " I interject, just as she's about to scurry out the door, and she stops short and turns back to face me, meeting my eyes again. This time, I'm not cocky or disingenuous or pompous, only grave and sincere, and I continue gently, "Don't let him break you, darling."

She blushes and scampers out, and I'm left in a cold, shiny white room.

 _I'm bleeding. A lot. The pool of blood that has slowly accumulated around me is uncomfortable and sticky, but I'm too physically and emotionally exhausted to move. I lay with my temple pressed to the cold concrete floor and numbly watch the edge of the blood pool creep toward the drain in the middle of the floor. There's a deep laceration in my side and my entire body is bruised, making even the slightest movement excruciating. My artificial leg is a dead weight to my body, the fiber optic cables having shorted out long ago from all the electrocutions. Multiple puncture wounds dot my thigh where Snow's torturers inserted the electrode needles into the veins of cables that run into my prosthetic. The wounds have thankfully started to coagulate, but they're so deep that all I can think about is how excruciating they are. I want so badly to sleep, but I start awake every time I feel myself dropping off into unconsciousness as the shadow of Katniss flashes behind my eyes, fanged and manipulative and hostile, causing my muscles to involuntarily convulse with the urgency of self-preservation. My head hurts and I can barely keep my eyes open, but I'm afraid to fall asleep because I'm afraid_ she _might be there, waiting for me, waiting to kill me. To use me. She's why I'm here._

 _I think I might have a concussion. One of the guards hit me pretty hard when I couldn't achieve an erection with Johanna, prohibiting them from seeing the show they'd so eagerly anticipated. I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling the sense of panic rise in my chest as a vague memory threatens to resurface. I remember being hit with a guard's baton. Being thrown down onto my stomach. A boot in the small of my back, holding me down. The guard's baton nudging my legs apart. Feeling the cold metal move up the inside of my thigh as I hear the unmistakable sound of pants unzipping. The other men in the room laughing and shouting. And then, nothing. A void where my memory should be. What happened? I'm not sure I want to remember anyway. I don't feel any residual soreness of having been violated, so that's something, at least. But my entire body is screaming in agony, so it might just be masking it. They said they'd rape me if I couldn't perform with Johanna. I don't see any reason why they'd exercise restraint._

 _I don't fight when rough hands mercilessly haul me up from the floor. My arm flops at an awkward angle and I have just enough energy to make a strangled sound of agony as the broken bones are cruelly shifted around, but I'm too close to unconsciousness and my head falls forward as two guards hoist me up by either elbow and drag me into the operating room, where a medic will proceed to put me back together and speed up my healing process so I'll be new enough to torture again tomorrow. Torture is no fun when the subject keeps losing consciousness from pain and blood loss._

 _I'm lain out on the cold metal table, a white-hot dome of halogen light glaring over me. I'm not even given the mercy of a paper sheet to cover my nakedness. I am no longer human. I am an object, an example, meant to serve a purpose. It wouldn't make any more sense to clothe me than it would a stray dog. I numbly watch the guards as they go to the mutilated, decomposing body on the metal table next to me. He's almost unrecognizable, so much of him is gone. Stumps where his hands should be, one leg missing below the knee, the other at the hip. Pieces of his face missing from the acid they dripped on him, demanding answers they knew he didn't have. One empty eye socket that still disturbingly seems like it's watching me, though the eye that's left stares lifelessly forward, and is most recognizably that of Darius, our Avox servant during the Quarter Quell. I hadn't been given any venom yet when they'd begun to torture him, and I vividly remember every agonizing moment of the things they did to him, the body parts they hacked off, little by little, starting with his manhood. Threatening they'd do the same to me, joking they'd sell it as an herbal supplement in the Capitol, marketed to increase virility for men not so fortunate as myself. The guards unceremoniously hoist the mutilated corpse from the table, hauling him out as if he were yesterday's garbage. I wonder how they'll dispose of the body. I wonder if I really care._

 _The piercing scent of antiseptic and disinfectant burns my eyes and sinuses as they sterilize the metal table, then they leave and slam the door behind them. No matter how many times I hear that sound, it always makes me jump, startling my body into a defensive panic. It's a reminder of how trapped I am. How I'll likely live out the rest of my life in captivity. How the walls always seem to grow in on me a little closer each time I hear that sound. I stare upward into the bright light, hoping that maybe this time, I'll be granted the mercy of death before the medic can fix me. The door opens again and Johanna is hauled in, where they throw her onto the table where Darius' lifeless body had just lain. She's covered in bruises and lacerations, and her hipbones and ribs are especially pronounced on her emaciated frame. She's bleeding profusely as well, but primarily from between her legs. Massive streaks of blood have dried on the inside of her thighs, and she protectively clutches her hands over her abdomen as tears fall silently from the corners of her eyes._

 _"Johanna," I rasp, unable to find my voice. I've been strangled quite a bit, and on top of all the screaming I've done in the past day, I wonder if I'll ever speak again. I reach a bloodied hand out to her, and she slowly rolls her head to the side and stares at me with vacant eyes. "What did they do to you?" I whisper._

 _"I was sick," she says flatly. "I kept throwing up. We've been here 38 days and I haven't bled."_

 _I shake my head, trying to make sense of what she says. 38 days and haven't bled? What does that even mean? Of course she's bled, we've both been doing plenty of it. What does that have to do with her throwing up? And then I make the connection. In the time we've been here, her courses haven't started. I'd have noticed, as I've been painfully familiar with the most intimate parts of her everyday since we've been here. My heart lurches into my throat. How long have the guards been making us fuck each other? I do the math in my head and I tragically close my eyes. It probably happened on that very first day we were forced together. "You're pregnant," I croak. I'm certain the guards haven't used her in that way. Otherwise they would have made me watch. The thing that's growing inside her is most assuredly mine._

 _I've always wanted kids. But not like this. Children borne of violence. Children borne of force. With someone I don't love. No. Please, no._

 _"Not anymore." Her voice is hollow and strained. I wish I could reach out to her, but she's too far away and even the slightest movement is excruciating._

 _"Not anymore?" I repeat._

 _"The guards held me down and jammed copper tubing up inside me until I bled it all out. ...It hurts, Peeta." Her voice breaks and she makes a few dry hacking sounds that I know are supposed to be sobs. I hope she never wanted children, because I'm almost certain she's never having them now._

 _A team of three medics enter the room, and one goes over to Johanna, roughly parting her legs and inspecting the damage with probing, gloved fingers. I tear my eyes away and try to meet the eyes of the medics who have begun to assess my injuries, but all of them pointedly avoid looking at my face. I don't recognize a single one of them. I've never seen the same medic twice, actually. I wonder if they keep rotating out because no one, not even in the Capitol, can ever have the emotional stamina to patch up a torture victim more than once. Especially one whose Hunger Games had them riveted to their seats. I give up trying to meet their eyes as one of them inserts a needle into my arm, connected to a tube that will replace the blood that I've lost. Whose blood is this? How many people have donated so that I could live? I silently curse the invisible person whose blood is in me now, for keeping me alive._

 _And then I scream when my arm is roughly reset back into place._

My scream echoes off of the sterile exam room walls, and I blink as the shiny world comes back into focus. I'm breathing heavily, and I'm still sitting on the exam table just as the medic left me moments before. Fantastic. I now can't even escape my nightmares by being awake. There aren't enough drugs in the world for this.

I hastily slide down to my feet and slip out, knowing the facility well enough that I can exit through the back corridors and avoid having to interact with people. A town car waits for me outside, and my driver takes me back to my flat where Portia is already waiting to make me presentable for today's client. I check my schedule and skim over the details as Portia styles my hair, frowning as I read. My client today is a virgin. I'm being gifted to her as a birthday present. I'll have the entire afternoon with her - plenty of time to make her first experience feel magical. How obscene. So this is how Capitol parents celebrate their children coming of age.

I'm given the address of the hotel where I'm meeting her, and I retrieve the card to her room at the front desk. They all recognize me, know why I'm here and what I'm doing. I've been here enough times that I know every last one of the personnel, but as far as the charade goes, I'm merely a suitor surprising a lover on her birthday. I find the designated room and open the door to a particularly frightened-looking girl sitting tensely on the edge of the bed. I very slowly close the door behind me, shutting it as softly as possible while keeping my eyes trained on her. She's pretty enough. My age, so it will definitely make things easier. I can see her trembling from where I stand, and she hugs her arms to her chest as she stares up at me with wide, imploring eyes.

A dreadful thought occurs to me, and I have to ask - "You're here by choice, correct?"

She gives a disjointed nod.

I cross the room to her and she goes even more rigid than she was before, and I calmly kneel down in front of her, fixing her with what I hope is a nonthreatening expression as I brace my hands on either side of her thighs, making it a point not to touch her. "Are you telling the truth? I don't care how much money was spent or who arranged this, I'm not doing anything that isn't completely consensual."

"No, this is what I wanted." Her voice shakes as she speaks, but there's conviction enough that I'm convinced she's telling the truth.

I give her a small, reassuring smile. "Nervous?" A stray strand of hair has fallen over her eye, and I gingerly reach up to tuck it out of the way, taking care not to actually touch her.

She nods again and I rise up, making my way to the room service cart bearing various wines and liquors. "Would you like a beverage?" I ask as I pour myself a drink. "It will help calm your nerves."

She shakes her head. "I'd like to stay clear-headed, if that's okay."

I turn and lean my shoulder against the wall, inspecting her as I sip my drink. "Of course." We stare at one another in silence and she swiftly glances away, as so many do under my gaze. I'm truly not trying to intimidate her. I'm hoping she'll lead the conversation, so I'll have something to work with. Virgins are tricky. It's so easy to fuck it up with them, and if it's not perfect, you've failed at your job. "So was there a particular fantasy you were wanting to entertain?" I suggest, hoping to ease her in the right direction.

She glances back up at me and blushes. "I don't...no, nothing really specific."

I cock my head to one side, narrowing my eyes but maintaining a light smile. "You mean to tell me you've not once entertained the idea of how this event might play out? It's okay, you don't need to be ashamed of your fantasies, no matter how obscene or frivolous you might think they are. Fantasies are what keep me in business," I finish wryly, having long ago lost the ability to censor myself and not being able to hide the bitterness in my tone as I say it.

It at least elicits a genuine laugh from her that isn't fueled by nervousness. She gives a slight shrug.

I cautiously close the distance between us and pull up a chair so that I can sit across from her, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees. "Are you sure there's no one you'd rather do this with? Someone you fancy, someone who can make it special for you?"

She inhales sharply and she keeps her eyes trained on my heavy-ringed fingers that hold my beverage. "Can't _you_ make it special?" She seems embarrassed, her eyes shifting away and avoiding my earnest stare.

I flash her another small, reassuring smile. "Yeah, I think I can do that."

I hesitate for a moment, long enough to study her closely. Long enough to gauge if her nervousness is because of past trauma and a fear of physical contact or the typical first-time jitters. She doesn't jump or cringe when I lift my hand to brush the hair out of my face. She doesn't shrink away from me when I move in closer to her. That's at least a good sign. She's just another girl whose reticence is a result of lack of experience. She'll need a good deal of gentle coaxing to be comfortable.

"May I touch you?" I ask, deciding on a straightforward approach in feeling out her comfort zone.

She nods very slowly, keeping wide eyes trained on me, and I set my glass down on the table next to me, cautiously reaching up again to brush away that strand of hair that's fallen back over her eye. This time I let my fingertips brush against her brow, let them trail along the curve of her ear as I tuck her hair back. She gives a quaint shudder, her eyes closing momentarily. I then brush the hair back over her shoulder, my fingers briefly grazing her neck, and the tiniest of moans sounds in the back of her throat, causing that ghastly predator in me, the one that so mercilessly feeds on innocence and vulnerability, to lurch within me. _Not here. Not now_. I retreat somewhere in my head so that I don't focus on the way her breathing comes in shallow, sporadic gasps, or how her heart beats so frantically that I can see the vibration of it in the fabric of her shirt. As if to spite me, a flash of Katniss flits through my head, a memory of her downcast eyes and apprehensive posture as she entered a room with me strapped to a bed in Thirteen. I recall my acidic responses that made her pulse throb visibly in her throat, a confusing mix of emotions stirring inside me. Did I want to mute that pulse in my hands or did I want to feel it in my mouth? _Such delicious vulnerability._

"Peeta?" The girl's voice is thin and fragile, and I realize from the ache in my jaw that I'm clenching my teeth. I'd escaped to the wrong place in my head and I'm afraid to know what she sees in my eyes right now. To think that the Capitol could be so irresponsible as to throw this innocent girl into a room alone with me. The outright fear in her eyes may just be the end of my ability for restraint. I can't have her like this.

I swiftly rise from the chair, going to the cabinets in the adjoining bathroom that offer a wealth of every amenity someone in my business might need. An array of prophylactic accessories, massage oils and lubricants, disinfectant wipes and soaps line the shelves, and I immediately find the thing I'm looking for, plucking it out of the assortment and tearing open the small square package as I return to her on the bed. I dump the little capsule out in my palm and reach up to gently take her chin in my free hand.

"Open," I instruct softly, guiding her mouth open with my thumb on her bottom lip. "Put this under your tongue. It doesn't alter your awareness, it just makes you relax. You'll still be completely lucid." It's a truly wonderful and convenient thing, this little pill. Engineered in a Capitol lab somewhere as soon as Snow realized he could profit off of the victors, it's too harmless to be considered a drug but somehow remarkably effective in eliminating anxiety. It's become something of a staple in the industry.

She seems to have already known of its existence because she doesn't need any further convincing, and seems rather relieved that it was on hand as she gratefully obeys my request. "Just give it a minute," I instruct softly, keeping her chin in my hand and idly brushing my thumb across her bottom lip. She's watching me steadily, her breathing heavy and slow from my touch.

"Will it hurt?" she whispers.

I nod. "Probably. A little. But I can make it bearable. Enjoyable, even. You can tell me to stop at any time, and I will. And don't let pride or a sense of obligation stop you from doing that, if it becomes too much - you need to stop, you tell me to stop, understand?"

She merely stares at me, eyes still wide and imploring.

"I need you to acknowledge that you do understand," I press. "You understand, yes?"

She nods slowly, and her breathing becomes markedly more relaxed as the violent, pounding vibration in the center of her chest slows gradually until it's no longer visible. She seems to wilt slightly as she's flooded with a sense of calm, and she takes her first real breath since my arrival.

"Better?" I ask, stroking the side of her face.

"Much," she says with a relieved sigh, momentarily closing her eyes.

"How would you like to begin?"

There's another flicker of nervousness that passes over her face, but she remains relatively calm. I reassuringly stroke her hair and give a small, understanding nod as I rise from my seat and come to sit next to her, close enough that our bodies are lightly pressed together. She feels the hard metal of my artificial leg beneath the fabric of my pants as it presses against her thigh, and she curiously rests her hand at the knee joint, unabashed fascination in her eyes as her fingers feel it out.

"I saw your Hunger Games," she whispers, her eyes darting up to meet mine for a fleeting moment before nervously flitting back down. "I saw that boy from Two hit you with that sword. I'd heard that they had to amputate your leg, but we never got to see the actual replacement." She then gasps and apologetically looks back up at me, abruptly withdrawing her hand. "I'm sorry," she blurts out, shaking her head. "That was...tactless."

"No it wasn't," I say with a genuine smile. "It's okay to be curious. Would you like to see it now, then?" It's probably the easiest way to nudge her in the direction of the particular hurdle of getting our clothes off, and I hope she'll catch the implication and go with it. I see a sheepish smile tug at the corner of her mouth and she nods.

I'm tentative and deliberate as I help her undress. Gentle and respectful when she initially tries to hide her nakedness. Pliable and cooperative when her uncertain hands fidget with the open collar of my shirt and fumble with the first button. I'm patient and encouraging when nervousness gives way to curiosity, when her inexperienced fingers explore my collarbone, the lines of my muscles, the bulge in my shorts. She hesitates, seemingly unsure if she wants to go further as those imploring eyes travel to mine for guidance.

"How about we just lay down for a moment and see how it feels?" I suggest.

She's eagerly susceptible to the idea. She curls up at my side, cheek nestled against my shoulder as her curious hands idly continue their exploration. She becomes bolder, shyness melting into something akin to passionate hunger. Physical closeness of a nonthreatening nature will almost always yield to instinct. I can't help but vividly remember those nights on the train, with _her_. I squeeze my eyes shut, wincing away the memory. I can't risk thinking about her right now. My client is about ready to jump out of her skin, she's so worked up now. I guide her back against the pillows and rise over her, nudging her thighs apart with a coaxing hand.

"This is still what you want?" I confirm, fixing her with stern eyes in the darkened room. She gives an assertive nod. "All right, darling. I want you take a deep breath and let it out as slowly as you can."

She does what I tell her. I try not to let the monster inside me take over when she cringes beneath me, and her pained whimper turns into a satisfied moan.

* * *

I hate Snow's parties.

My first time here, I was just some district commoner unable to process all of it, too stunned by all the lavish distractions to really notice how vulgar and obscene it was. Of course I'd caught on rather quickly at how repulsive it was that people were forcing themselves to regurgitate their food so they could continue a night of gluttony and greed while people from my own district were starving to death, but I never would have fathomed how that was a mere glimpse into the sordid nature of these gatherings. I hadn't known what vile things transpired behind closed doors, how many bodies had been hauled out through secluded maintenance hallways and delivered to the incinerator that I know lies in a far corner of the grounds, separated from the main building by vast courtyards filled with genetically engineered roses that mask the smell of burning hair and flesh with their overwhelming, dizzying scent. I hadn't known that so many members of Capitol high society were invited to these gatherings, only to be selected from the crowd when they'd become too much of a threat, and unceremoniously killed from a seemingly innocuous sip of champagne after being granted a private audience with the president himself.

I laugh to myself as I inspect the elaborate frosted decorations on a tower of petits fours, thinking of how similar these soirées are to the reapings in the districts. Receive an invitation to one of Snow's parties, and just hope you don't get picked for a summons to his coveted walk-in humidor. Even the Capitol isn't free of its very own warped version of the Hunger Games. The only difference is, at least these people get to go relatively quick, and their deaths are discreet rather than a national, televised spectacle. My small chuckle turns into a full, hearty laugh as I think of how Snow's personally appointed assassinations would make for riveting programming. _I'd_ watch the hell out of it, at any rate.

"Something amusing about the pastries?"

I'm pleasantly surprised when I turn to see Crispin standing behind me as he rather quaintly pops one of the pastries into his mouth, maintaining a coy smirk as he watches me. He's immaculate and, I daresay, dashingly handsome in a perfectly tailored crimson blazer and waistcoat, his straight black hair brushing the tops of his shoulders as he tosses it out of his face. I wouldn't be able to suppress my smile even if I wanted to, and I close the small distance between us to greet him with a polite kiss on the cheek.

"I'd laugh at them too if I had your talent," he continues.

"What are you doing here?" I ask wearily, a wave of unease tightening my chest. I'm not sure I like him being here. Being in such close proximity to Snow. There's that lurch of protectiveness that I haven't felt in what feels like centuries, and a part of me wants to whisk him out of here and far away from the savagery that goes on in this house.

"One of the perks of my line of work. Snow doesn't genuinely care about the fine arts, but he at least pretends he does so that he looks remotely cultured to the privileged blow-hards in the Capitol. I usually skip these things, but I came tonight after enough prodding from Sterling and my coworkers." He swipes a glass of champagne from a passing tray and slowly turns on his heel, inspecting the decor and the festivities. "It's just as dreadful as I'd always imagined," he says idly, sipping his beverage and rolling his eyes. "At any rate, I guess it beats shooting up alone on my couch."

My body tenses and I'm grateful that for once, there isn't a drink in my hand, because I likely would have broken the glass in my palm. I hate how he jokes so casually about it. I don't even like him drinking that champagne. I know those particular glasses don't bear the threat of poison, but it's the mere symbolism of it. How it's too easy to imagine what it would look like if they did. I think my disdain is too easily readable on my face, because Crispin very slowly lowers the glass from his face, his expression falling into one of concern.

"Peeta, are you alright? You look ill."

I briefly close my eyes and give him what is most assuredly not a convincing smile. "Come on," I say, taking his arm. "Dance with me."

He hesitates, giving me a skeptical look. "Here? In front of all these people?"

There's no shortage of same sex liaisons in the Capitol. Nonetheless, the conventional opinion is that it's uncouth and obscene, so everything happens in secret while they convince themselves it never happens at all. But their opinion means nothing to me. The sexual deviants in the Capitol partake in far worse activities than two men sharing what could arguably be a romantic moment. I'm untouchable at this rate, anyway. I'm the only victor left that's employed by the Capitol. Even Enobaria has expended her worth here. They can judge all they want, but without me, there would be no one left with which to bring to fruition all of their most wretched desires.

"Fuck them," I say, pulling him into a slow dance that surprisingly goes largely unnoticed by most of the people on the ballroom floor. Only a couple of people take notice of us, and they nervously avert their eyes without saying a word.

A smile dances on his lips, and his dark eyes are warm and grateful as he looks at me. Admittedly, I don't think I've ever seen him this happy. "There you are," he says softly.

I tilt my head to one side. "What's that?"

"The old you. The old Peeta that the Capitol couldn't destroy. You know, I think I've figured it out. He comes out when you're distracted enough to stop hating yourself for a minute."

I know he means it as a compliment, a statement of reassurance, but I wonder if it's entirely a good thing. Do I want to be that guy anymore? I don't want to think about that. I merely give him a placating smile and sweep him around in a circle, my arms gently embracing him as a flash of Katniss flickers from the recesses of my memory. She and I danced on this very spot, just like this, not too long ago. This time there's no mistaking it, I can vividly remember exactly how I felt in that moment. Apprehensive, a little defeated, but ultimately content for the moment, my heart swelling with affection for the girl in my arms. The memory fades like dissolving mist in my head, too quickly disappearing from my thoughts even though I struggle to hold on to it. A vestige of the emotion remains though, and I realize it's because a part of me feels that very emotion for Crispin. That overwhelming urge to protect him. How I care so deeply about him.

What's remarkable is that I never thought I could care about anyone ever again.

"You mentioned Sterling earlier," I say, trying to find a way to focus my conflicting emotions, or silence them altogether. "Is she here too?"

"Somewhere. But fuck knows what she's gotten up to. I haven't seen her in an hour."

My heart skips a beat. _Please be safe_. I care about her, too. I'm stricken with the overwhelming realization at how much I really don't want to be here. I think I might suffocate if I stay in this house too long. I'm about to suggest a quiet escape to Crispin when one of the many uniformed stewards politely steps in front of us and informs me that President Snow would like a private audience with me.

I feel my heart slide into my stomach as I very rigidly step away from Crispin, and his brows come together in puzzled concern when he sees my ashen expression. I give the steward a nod and impulsively wrap my arms around Crispin in a tight embrace as I kiss him deeply on the mouth. As if it's the last time I might kiss him. I then press my lips to his cheekbone and his temple, eventually bringing my mouth to his ear so only he can hear my whisper.

"If anyone offers you a beverage, accept it, but don't drink it. Don't eat the food. Ditch the party if you can."

I reluctantly release him, trying to avoid his gaze so I don't see his alarmed expression. I numbly climb the spiral staircase to the second level of the mansion, allowing my feet to direct me to the designated wing without even consciously thinking about where I'm going. I've walked these halls enough, I know exactly where to go. I come to the door of Snow's study, lifting my fist to knock as is the expected requirement, but I stop when I hear a particularly tense voice within.

" - hope you're prepared, because _she is coming_. As long as you have the boy, you're essentially incentivizing another attack from - "

Oh. _Really_.

I rudely barge into the room, causing the man who was previously speaking to abruptly halt in mid-sentence, jumping slightly at my violent intrusion. I don't directly look at them, but chance a glance out of the corner of my eye as I cross the room to Snow's assortment of rare liquors. I vaguely recognize the guy he's speaking with. He's the closest that might pass for a war strategist in the Capitol, but he's become more of a secretary to Snow than anything else. He's jumpy and fidgety, and his voice is high and thin and annoys me.

"Pardon me, gentlemen. I do hope I'm not interrupting," I say dismissively, stopping at the table bearing the liquor and hovering an indecisive hand over one, then another bottle as I contemplate my decision. I pointedly keep my back to them. Show Snow how inconsequential I find him. How threatened I'm _not_. That he's on _my_ time now. I pluck a snifter from the rack with a particularly rough _clink_ that might have resulted in broken glassware had I applied just a little more force. The secretary scurries out without waiting to be dismissed, closing the door firmly behind him, and I finally turn to face Snow. He's displeased enough with me that his usual self-satisfied smirk is absent.

"You don't mind, do you?" I ask with insincere politeness as I pluck the stopper out of a square crystal decanter and pour myself a generous serving, keeping my eyes on him. I've intentionally helped myself to his rarest, finest cognac. It's prestigious because apparently the place where cognac comes from doesn't even exist anymore. I imagine if all the money in existence was pooled, it still wouldn't even come close to matching the amount of money this bottle is worth. I set the decanter back in its place so forcefully that the other bottles frantically chime together with the impact.

He finally fixes me with that sanctimonious, shit-eating grin. I knew I wouldn't be fortunate enough to get through a meeting with Snow without seeing it. I'd slap it right off his face with my glass if it wouldn't mean wasting a fine beverage.

"You've done a fine job, Mellark. I have to say, I'm rather proud of what I've created."

 _Wow. Go fuck yourself._

It's apparent that he thinks he knows all of the best ways to push my buttons, and he's doing his best to elicit an emotional response from me. It's difficult, but I don't take the bait. Instead, I roll my eyes in the fashion of an insolent teenager dismissing an outdated grandparent. "Just get on with it, Snow," I say, my voice muffled in my glass as I drain half of it.

He watches me for a moment, then opens a drawer in his desk, producing a small, rectangular box that he places in front of him on the desk. "It would seem that your... _colleague's_ last propo presented me with a bit of a problem."

"She's not exactly my colleague," I growl, wondering why he ever would have thought I'd be able to help him with the machinations of Thirteen smear campaigns.

"I'm not talking about Miss Everdeen," he says calmly. "I'm talking about Finnick Odair. He did me the incredible disservice of telling the nation how I kept my rivalries at bay. Now, I'm afraid...no one will toast with me."

 _Toast with you_. What a picturesque euphemism for unfortunate targets whose paychecks and bribes will now never be compelling enough to make them trust a murderer and a despot ever again.

"Sounds like a personal problem," I say.

"My head of security has become...problematic," he continues, disregarding my dismissive response. "I want you to take care of him."

I narrow my eyes and slowly lower my glass. " _Take care_...of him?" I repeat. What a vague request. I want to make him say it. I want to hear him explicitly tell me to kill someone.

"You'll find everything you need in that case," he says, nodding toward the sleek black box he'd previously placed on the desk. "The cause of death will appear to be cardiomyopathy."

I guess it's the closest I'm going to get.

I raise one eyebrow and slowly approach the desk, keeping my eyes steadily on his as I pick up the black box and open it. I tear my eyes away from him just long enough to briefly inspect the contents of the box, and secured into the foam casing inside is a vial of clear liquid and six slender syringes. I wonder if Snow thinks I'll fuck it up that much that I'll need that many attempts, or if it's a tacit suggestion that this won't be the only time I do this for him. I slam the box shut and toss it back on his desk. I may be a representation of a lot of vile things and bad habits, but I'm officially retired from killing people. That's not in my job description.

"Find someone more qualified to be your personal assassin. I just fuck people." I turn to leave, downing the rest of my beverage and tossing the empty glass into the polished travertine fireplace, where it impacts with a gratifying shatter.

"The target is Gavin Montgomery," he says quietly, just before I place my hand on the doorknob.

Now there's a bribe if I ever did hear one.

And I'm not above accepting it.

I turn and slowly approach the desk, my eyes burning into his as I swipe the box off of the desk and tuck it into the breast pocket of my blazer. My mouth twitches as I consider saying something cutting. I can't let him have this victory. I narrow my eyes at him and mirror his sanctimonious grin.

"You know, you throw children to their death every year and tell yourself they're just _games_ with the sole intention of discouraging a rebellion. But they're not just games...are they? All you've done is create an elite group of soldiers who are prepared for war. There may only be seven of us left, and we're _all fucked up_ , but just think of all those Careers in 1 and 2 who trained their whole lives for this and sadly never got picked. Just itching for an excuse to fuck something up. I do hope you've stayed on the good side of those districts, hm?"

I give myself just long enough to appreciate the first time I've ever seen Snow uncomfortable, sneering down at him in satisfaction before taking my leave.

* * *

Ideally, I'd wait until I had an appointment with the target. He _is_ one of my most frequent clients.

But he's Crispin's father. An abusive, drunk, hypocritical piece of shit who permanently damaged one of the only friends I have left in this world. It's too tempting of an offer for me to wait.

I'm leaning against the door of his designated town car when he exits the party. I tell him Snow has awarded me to him for the night for his exceptional service. He's skeptical at first, but I flash him my best dashing smile and he suddenly can't think clearly. He quickly ushers me into the back seat, furtively glancing around to see if anyone else might have witnessed us together - I saw to it that no one would - and we return to his house on the opposite side of the city.

Probably the greatest benefit of being a hired companion is that we are as trusted as we are underestimated. Innocuous. Never dangerous. We _fuck_ for a living, how crafty could we be, really? And yet, we're the most likely person to kill you in your sleep. It's morbidly romantic, actually.

I flex my shoulder blades a little as I enter his bedroom, my eyes falling on the flogger he used on me the first time I had an appointment with him. This isn't the type made of soft, wide leather strands that's manufactured specifically for enjoyable kink - the kind that Sterling keeps in her bedroom - this one is meant to harm, with hard knots worked into the stiff material, a premeditated torture device. My back ended up in worse shape than Gale's was that day in the square, and I was out of commission for days while Snow's medics worked tirelessly to heal the deep lacerations and keep my fever under control. The doctors had magically been able to erase any trace of scarring on my back in less than a week, but they'd never be able to erase the memory of the pain.

This is what drives me now.

I've got the loaded syringe hidden in my palm before he can even get his jacket off, and when he sits on the edge of the bed and gestures for me to join him, I don't hesitate. He closes his eyes when I lean in to kiss his neck, and I fluidly jab the needle in his throat, delivering a fatal dosage to his bloodstream before he can even process what's happening to him. In a fit of enraged panic, he lunges for me, attempts to strike me, but I catch him by the throat and violently fling him back on the bed. I come to sit next to him as the paralysis takes over, and he stares at me with frantic, disbelieving eyes as he chokes and struggles for air. I smooth his hair back from his forehead and give him my best insincere smile, so overwhelmed with contempt and hatred for this man that I'm disappointed he got such a merciful end. It's a shame I couldn't have used the flogger and bled him to death.

I lean in close as if I might kiss his forehead, and I whisper, "For Crispin."

I wait just long enough for him to stop breathing, and I discreetly slip out the back.

It's not even midnight. I'd planned on being at the party all night, and then I hadn't expected to ever leave. Now I'm struck with an overwhelming sense of ennui, unable to figure out what to do with myself. It's rare that I ever sleep before sunrise, if I sleep at all. In the several weeks I've been here, I've come to equate my self-worth with my job, and my ability to do it well. With no client to entertain, and the recent discovery of my prowess as a silent assassin, I can't think of anything constructive to do with my free time. What did I used to do? Paint. Sketch. Bake.

I really have no desire to do those things anymore. I probably wouldn't be any good at them anyway.

I end up at a rooftop lounge that I'm pretty sure Sterling owns. It's classy enough, and reflects her style. Most of the guests are huddled beneath the heat lamps sporadically spaced among the patio, sheltered in their protective warmth. Beautiful corseted women in sleek leather pumps with red soles stalk by me as pleasant, upbeat music consisting of a piano and violin plays softly in the background. The bartender is busy but on point, and I'm grateful for her noninvasive nature. She's at least attentive to whenever the level of my beverage gets too low, seemingly noticing it through eyes in the back of her head and having another ready for me before I even have to ask.

I think I might _almost_ be content - or at least something other than pissed off or impatient or contemptuous, for once - when the loud, obnoxious conversation between two men who certainly don't fit in here carries over to my seat, which consists of a fairly derogatory opinion complete with obscene slurs about men who partake in intimate company with other men. I'm really not in the mood for this right now. Any other day, I would have waved it off. _Probably_. But right now, with the lost opportunity to really inflict punishment on someone who truly deserves it fresh in my mind, I need to indulge a little. I drain my glass and set it down on the bar, gesturing with a flat hand over the rim that I'm done for the evening, then pay out my tab. I give the bartender a serene smile as I leave her a generous tip, and she nods politely, mirroring my serene smile. _You'll see me again, lovely_.

I push off from my bar stool and casually stride over to the two men, flexing my heavy-ringed fingers before throwing my fist into the jaw of the one currently speaking. The blow knocks him off of his seat, and when his friend abruptly stands and moves toward me, I restrain him with a firm hand in his chest before my rings impact with his nose. People seated nearby have begun to rise from their seats, and I shake my bloodied hand, wincing at how the rings have cut into my flesh from the impact. At least I didn't dislocate any knuckles. A couple of suited men with earpieces have swiftly made their way over to me, and I hold my hands up in compliance.

"It's alright. I was just leaving," I assure them coldly as the two men I've just floored try to stanch the flow of their bloodied faces.

Then I see Sterling standing just behind one of the security guards, looking glamorous as always even though she's dressed casually with a newsboy cap pulled low over her eyes. I'm surprised she isn't in formal evening attire, considering she was presumably just at Snow's party. But out of all of the faces staring at me right now, hers is the only one that isn't shocked, appalled, or defensive. It's just as understanding and patient as ever. She lays a restraining hand on the arm of the security guard closest to me, quietly instructing them both to escort the two injured men out before turning back to me. I find I can't meet her eyes, and I suddenly regret having just indulged my temper. Of all the people to see that side of me, I'd wanted her to be the last. The fact that she seems completely unfazed does nothing to reassure me.

"Sterling, I'm so sorry," I say to the ground. "I know it's your place and all - "

"Don't be. Hate speech is not tolerated in my establishments. I would have had them escorted out anyway if you hadn't gotten to them first. Besides, anyone who treats my bartenders right gets a free pass," she says with a smile, gently guiding me downstairs to the street.

"I'm sorry you had to see that," I say quietly.

She waves it off as she guides me into a cab waiting at the curb, sliding in beside me. She's taking things way too smoothly. I wonder why nothing ever throws her, why she isn't horrified or stunned. She should be disgusted. I think maybe I _want_ her to be, but I can't figure out why.

"You shouldn't be so forgiving," I tell her, removing my rings and storing them in my pocket. "Or trusting. I'm not...I'm dangerous, Sterling."

I hear a small, amused huff from her, and I glance at her out of the corner of my eye. I can only see the lower half of her face, as her hat shadows her eyes, but I see a sly smirk playing on her lips. "You're afraid you're going to hurt me," she says impassively.

"I feel like I'm two different people. And they're constantly battling with one another. ...And sometimes I lose control. The drugs...the drugs don't help." I don't know why I'm talking about this. I don't want to talk about this.

I see her nodding out of the corner of my eye. "I know." It's not just a trite response. There's a barely perceptible drop to her tone, as if it's accompanied by a note of tragedy or finality. As if she truly does know. As if she's speaking from experience.

I chance a sideways glance at her, finally summoning up the courage to really look at her, and this time it's her who avoids my gaze. Her mouth is a thin, straight line as she stares down at her lap, and I want to question her, but I know better. She'd deflect my questions anyway.

We pull in front of her townhouse, where I reluctantly follow her up the steps. I can only imagine I'm breaking some kind of rule by fraternizing with clients when I'm off the clock, as it were. And most importantly, I'm genuinely afraid I might hurt Sterling. I see a flash of Katniss' paralyzed expression, my hands wrapped tightly around her throat, and I halt on the steps, bracing myself against the railing as I try to force the image out of my head. My memories these days are nothing short of an accusation, laying dormant in the recesses of my mind for the most opportune moment to strike, taunting me, pointing a reproachful finger at me.

 _I'm rather proud of what I've created_.

I'm probably the most prestigious mutt to have ever come out of the Capitol. And I was too weak to resist what I've become.

"Peeta." Her voice is clear and soothing, and it dissolves the disparaging image in my head. "Come inside." Her hand is extended toward me, and I look up at her doubtfully.

"I might have a client in the morning," I say, hesitantly shaking my head. I haven't even looked at my schedule, but there's no doubt Snow's got me lined up for a lot more than just clients with eccentric sexual appetites.

"You're clear for the next several days," she says, swinging the door open and motioning for me to go inside. "I bought you out for the week."

I stare up at her in disbelief. "What? But - why? Why would you do that?"

She gives a small smile and shrugs. "I figured you needed a vacation."

"Sterling - that must have cost you a fortune," I gasp. A week to buy the last victor employed by the Capitol - a commercial high-rise by the City Circle might go for less.

She shrugs again. "It's nothing I can't handle. Seriously though, come inside. It's fucking freezing out here."

I don't notice until she mentions it, but my teeth are clenched against the cold and the throbbing in my cut knuckles is exacerbated by the chill. I hurry inside and I let out a sigh of relief when I see Crispin rise to greet us. We warmly embrace, my arms so tight around him that I'm practically crushing him.

"Peeta," he gasps. "What the hell was that about at the party?"

"Actually, Peeta, I'm a little interested to know what your business was there, myself," Sterling interjects politely. "I know you're obligated to be there anyway, but Snow did request a private meeting with you, if I'm not mistaken?"

I release Crispin and slowly turn to face her. This is the last place I want to talk about this. Not in front of him. It's clear he hasn't heard the news of his father yet, and regardless of how he'll feel about it, I never intend for him to know it was at my hand. I fix Sterling with a warning glare that can't convey _Not right now_ quite enough, and I see understanding settle on her face. "He just wanted to go over all the mandatory public appearances I have to make," I lie. "Though with Snow's track record, I expected the worst and figured I was being called up for a private toast." Crispin groans behind me, knowing too well the connotation of having a drink with the president.

"I'm glad you weren't," he says, leaning in to kiss the back of my neck. "Your worth to the Capitol is too great for him to do something as foolish as that. The fact that Sterling bought you is testimony to that. She turned down the Odair kid plenty of times," he says with a smirk.

Sterling gives him a chastising look, clearly not having wanted him to disclose this information.

"Wait, you refused Finnick?" I ask. "Why?"

She's clearly tense and uncomfortable, and she meets my eyes for a split second before answering. "Didn't find him all that attractive," she says with a shrug. It's a lie. With all the time I've spent with Sterling, it's at least become very clear that she doesn't indulge in hired companions merely for the sex or because she finds us attractive.

"Sterling has a very specific type," Crispin says conspiratorially, then leans in to kiss her on the cheek. "I'll see you tomorrow at rehearsal," he says, then takes his leave. I wonder why he's leaving so soon. Why he was even here in the first place.

Sterling and I stare at one another in silence for a long moment, then she turns in the direction of the liquor cabinet in her usual habit of getting me a drink, but I grab her arm before she can go, causing her to apprehensively turn back and fix me with a pleading expression.

"What's the real reason you refused to employ Finnick?" I ask.

"What's the real reason you met with Snow?" she counters.

I narrow my eyes. "I asked first."

She hesitates, her face going from pleading to stern, and she takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "I couldn't afford him," she says evenly.

It's a loaded answer, and as wealthy as I know she is, I also know the currency in which Finnick dealt - secrets. I also know Sterling has a wealth of those as well, so the only conclusion to be made is that she wasn't willing to impart them to someone even as presumably innocuous as he was. It's the most of an answer I'm going to get, but it's telling enough. I nod.

"Your turn," she whispers.

"Snow's having me kill people for him."

She doesn't seem surprised. She actually seems as though a suspicion has been grimly confirmed, and she gives a curt nod. "Yes, that used to be Enobaria's job for those who were clever enough not to drink the proffered toast."

" _What?_ You mean he's done this with other victors?"

She nods. "Enobaria was awful at it, though. No finesse, no discretion. It's a little conspicuous when someone's supposed to have died of heart failure and their throat's been ripped out by a jagged set of fangs."

So that's why Snow retired her. Can't say I blame him. As many admirers as they say she had here, I can't see there being much of a market for her in the sex industry. I can only imagine how amusing of a drinking partner she might have been. Still, what a cunt. She's supposed to be a Career, and she couldn't even kill people without fucking it up. Not only a failure to her district, but now I'm stuck with the job because she was incompetent. I hold her in contempt for that fact alone.

"Why didn't you want to divulge this in front of Crispin?" she asks suddenly.

I hesitate. I'm not sure I want Sterling to know, either. I know she'd accept my refusal to answer without another word, but I feel I at least owe her that much. "Because my first target was his father," I answer grimly.

She sighs and throws her head back in frustration. "Fuck, what a mess. You're not gonna do it though?"

I hold her gaze when she looks back over at me, and my silence says it all.

"You already did it." It isn't a question. "So...how do you feel about it, then?" Her tone isn't accusatory or shocked or chastising. It's merely impartial and perhaps the slightest bit curious.

"What, killing the guy?" I shrug. "He was a prick. He abused Cris. Flayed my back into shreds on one of my first nights on the job. I enjoyed every second of watching him die. The only regret I have is that I couldn't reciprocate some of the damage he's inflicted on the people he's hurt."

I expect a disdainful reaction from her. A horrified one would have been ideal, but I know better by now than to ever expect that much from her. Instead, she looks hopeful. Approving, even. She gives me a tight smile and squeezes my shoulder. "That's good. It means you're on the right track."

 _On the right track_. Her response has me reeling, and I almost can't find the right words to express my shock. " _Seriously?_ What part of that is ' _on the right track?_ '"

She sighs, as if she shouldn't have to explain this to me. "Even if you did have regrets about doing it...Crispin's father was a despicable person. He had enough rivalries and had gotten on Snow's bad side enough times that it would have happened eventually anyway, regardless of whether or not it was at your hand. But your reasoning behind why you did it...it shows that you're still capable of passion and justice, and not just killing because it's what you're programmed to do. Do you understand, Peeta? You're coming back."

My first instinct is to refute it, but I find that I can't find a compelling argument against the assertion. I'm too exhausted to even try. "I'm really tired, Sterling," I sigh.

She nods and gently embraces me. "You can take any of the spare bedrooms," she mumbles against my ear.

I pull out of the embrace, trying not to look wounded, though I'm sure I'm failing at it. "You don't want company tonight? You bought me for the whole week."

A small crease forms in the center of her brow and she reaches up to run a reassuring hand through my hair. "I figured you'd want a break. I can't imagine you get too many opportunities to sleep alone. If you'd rather accompany me in my bed, you're more than welcome to join me."

And I do. I don't ever actually _sleep_ with my clients - unless they're Sterling or Cris - and under any other circumstances, I imagine not having to share a bed would be a luxury to someone in my profession. But the nightmares still come, and sleeping alone is more of a chore than a privilege. I cherish her comforting weight next to me, the noninvasive press of her body. Being an entertainer, she's a day sleeper as well, and I'm grateful for the opportunity to not have to sleep alone. She also has the most excellent blackout curtains.

She leaves for the club in the late afternoon, assuring me I can come and go as I please. I haven't had this kind of freedom... _ever_ , really, and I'm not sure what to do with it. There's nothing in Capitol leisure that interests me, as my job has made me look at everything in this city with a particular filter of distaste. Instead I occupy myself with her books. She has an entire wall lined with bookcases, and of all the times I've been here, I've not once allowed myself to browse through them. These aren't the pulpy smut novellas my mother used to hoard under her recliner. A good deal of these books seem to be particularly old, and flipping to the copyright pages confirms it, with years dating back to long before Panem even existed. There's no doubt that these books might get Sterling in a lot of trouble if Snow knew about them, and I kind of wonder how he doesn't. It's actually a little puzzling how freely she speaks in our conversations, as if she doesn't even entertain the possibility of her house being bugged. As if privacy is a luxury she can actually afford.

I'm eagerly rifling through the book collection, too overwhelmed and excited to be able to keep my attention focused on just one for too long, when I find a nondescript, leather-bound logbook tucked into the end of the middle shelf. It seems so out of place that I slide it out and open it, wondering why it's here of all places, and not in a desk or a filing cabinet as it should be. My heart stops when my eyes fall on the first document. A bill of receipt, with the stamp of the Capitol on the letterhead. Items purchased, and their respective, exorbitant prices. Burn medicine. Sleep syrup. Septicemia antibiotic. Times and dates they were dispatched to the arena. The signatures of Haymitch Abernathy, Seneca Crane, and lastly, Sterling St. Claire at the bottom.

My hands shake so much that I drop the logbook, causing the other various pages to spill out onto the floor. I need to sit down. I sink down onto an ottoman in the corner, resting my forehead in my hands as I try to get my breathing under control. It was Sterling who sponsored us most of the time. She saved our lives in the arena. Not once did she take credit for it or mention it to me. And then a fleeting memory of our Victory Banquet flashes through my head, a trivial moment I'd tucked away until now.

Upon my first meeting with Sterling, I'd thought she seemed familiar. I'd attributed it to how many buildings, buses, department store windows were graced with her face. But now I remember - a brief moment as Katniss and I posed for pictures with drunk, ecstatic sponsors and Capitol officials who practically wrestled one another for mere seconds of our time, I'd glanced up toward the second floor balcony in Snow's mansion and seen Sterling standing serenely at the top of the spiral staircase, impassively looking down at us from her vantage point, not a trace of emotion betraying her face. I hadn't known who she was at the time, and I'd met her eyes for only a second, and then she'd calmly spun on her heel, skirts twirling gracefully around her legs with the movement, and then she disappeared from sight as Haymitch stumbled into me, nearly spilling his drink on my blazer.

All I can think about is what reason she might possibly have to want to remain anonymous. I gather up the documents that have cascaded onto the floor and straighten them as best I can, tucking them back into the book with the receipt on top. I'm stoically waiting in my usual chair with the logbook in one hand and a rocks glass of gin in the other when Sterling returns in the small hours of the morning. Her eyes fall to the book in my hand, and I see an expression of accepted defeat settle across her face.

"Sterling," I say gently. "I think it's about time you told me who you are."


	8. Stealth-Fighter Possessed

_.Katniss._

Gale and I stare at each other in silence as the hovercraft transports us to Five. There's a bit of a smirk playing on his lips, and I begin to feel my own smirk threatening to break through my perpetual scowl. I think we've both reached a level of complacence that neither of us thought we'd ever be capable of achieving. That a victory might actually be possible. Coin's compliance was surprising at first, but it wasn't difficult to realize that she merely saw an opportunity to expedite her rise to dominance over all of the districts. My promotion to Commander had less to do with her recognition of my supposed excellence as a leader and tactician and more to do with her need to exploit my recklessness and tenacity. I'm okay with that. There certainly are enough perks that come with my new rank, and I intend to exploit them just as much as Coin has exploited me. I have my own plans. The real challenge is helping the rest of Thirteen see how much of a ruthless, power-hungry despot she is, so that when the time comes, I can take her out without any resistance.

It's a lot easier to do this as a commander than it was as a tentative "soldier" who rarely ever made it down to training.

Gale has thankfully been on the same page since the beginning. He'd only ever conceded to Coin's authority because he figured she was the lesser of two evils. He's always been better at charming people into seeing things his way than I ever have, and over the last few weeks, he's been subtly planting the seed of dissent in the heads of anyone who will listen. Never outwardly condemning Coin or doing anything that might be potentially incriminating; merely giving small suggestions about how things should really be, how a civilized world should really look. What the ideal meaning of freedom actually is. Little by little, people in Thirteen are beginning to realize that Coin's current regime is the farthest from that picturesque utopia we'd all envisioned existed before the rise of Panem. How sacrificing one's leisure and autonomy in exchange for a mandated schedule tattooed on one's arm everyday, with no opportunity for self-determination, is hardly a fair bargain for safety. Safety that can't even be completely guaranteed, judging by how close the Capitol was to taking out a good deal of our population had Peeta not warned us.

The whispers have started. In the Collective, during announcements. Behind cupped hands in the dining hall. Snide remarks that hint at a note of displeasure beginning to ripple through Thirteen, an eye roll here, a derisive snort there. A population slowly becoming unconvinced of how fortunate they have it. I've not held this rank long, but already I've seen the influence I have on my soldiers in training. How susceptible they are to the real meaning of justice, and how readily they'll fight - or die - for it. None of them need to be coached. I'm almost certain that most of them would rally for her dismissal - and maybe even her execution. My promotion and subsequent participation in training has revived Thirteen's eagerness for rebellion, to the point where even Johanna has been making it down for drills, despite her severe withdrawal symptoms. People are listening to me. Especially since word got out that Coin sent a hijacked Peeta to join our squad in the Capitol, so the rumors are that Coin is either incredibly careless and lacking in sound judgment enough to be a sufficient leader, or that she was trying to deliberately kill the Mockingjay. Neither bode well for her future or her popularity, and I've gained a fair amount of support from the population in the process.

This has naturally caused a bit of friction with Boggs 2, who vehemently disagreed with Coin on my promotion and lambasted her with a barrage of expletives at the decision. He's made it a point to contradict me at every turn, giving recruits any instruction that's contrary to mine, openly arguing with me in front of my squads in the middle of drills. It's a wonder how he ever made it high enough in the ranks to replace Boggs, or could survive in a military environment at all considering his complete lack of discipline and severe disregard for decorum and tact. The guy's about as subtle as a nuclear missile and would likely be as conspicuous as one if I ever had to take him on a real mission. If that unfortunate scenario ever happens, I'll make sure to kill him myself before we ever get to our objective. He's too much of a hindrance to the progression of our army.

I stare down at my cut, bruised knuckles and flex my fingers to work the stiffness out of them - a remnant of my most recent altercation with him. I was supervising a drill and had heard about enough of his condescending, dismissive remarks and just snapped. Everything went black for a moment. I don't remember stopping in the middle of the drill and marching over to him. I don't remember pounding his face in with the butt of my rifle, knocking him to the ground. I don't remember throwing my rifle down and straddling him so that his arms were pinned beneath my knees so he couldn't resist. All I remember is finding myself suddenly pummeling his face repeatedly with both fists, shouting obscenities in his face. "You stupid fuck! This is a _war_ , you fucking fuck!" Over and over I called him every vile name I could think of, obscenities I never would have dared say in front of my mother, keeping up a rhythm of bashing his face in no matter how sore my knuckles were getting. And still, he wouldn't relent - so narcissistic, he was, that he had to get in one last derogatory, sexist comment before I liberated him of all his teeth, and in a fit of rage, I pushed off of him and stooped down to swipe my gun off the ground. "I'm gonna blow his fuckin' head off!" I shouted, marching back over to him and aiming down at his prone figure.

My finger was already bearing down on the trigger when Gale rushed over and laid a firm hand on my rifle, guiding it down and gently pulling me away. "Katniss," he said softly. " _Katniss, Katniss, Katniss_." He kept repeating my name, his voice becoming sterner each time until I snapped out of it and turned to face him. He looked horrified as he stared at me in disbelief, and I slowly turned to my squad of recruits, who were all standing slack-jawed at me and not daring to move a muscle. My eyes shifted back to Boggs 2, his bloodied face so swollen and broken that it was completely unrecognizable. I even gave a little satisfied laugh at how he'd at least finally stopped talking.

"Katniss, what the fuck," Gale had whispered, a crease deepening in the center of his brow as he slowly shook his head.

I imagine he was more concerned for my emotional state, but all I could think about was how I'd probably be relieved of my duties, stripped of my rank, and thrown back in a hospital bed with a permanent morphling IV to keep me tame. Not that I'd ever let that happen, because escaping Thirteen will always be an option, but imagine my surprise when Coin merely put Boggs 2 on leave so the medics could reconstruct his face to the best of their abilities, and I was debriefed in Command with Gale filling in the blank spots as he gently plucked out the broken tooth fragments that were embedded in my knuckles. I was given a lecture about the importance of maintaining composure, but that discrimination and remarks of prejudice were not tolerated in our military and to return to my duties as soon as possible, because I was now first in command.

I was shocked to the point of suspicion at how Coin had been letting so many lapses in judgment and behavior go so easily, but Gale summed it up perfectly. "She's confident that your recklessness will get the job done for her. Putting you on the front lines as a high ranking officer will just make it look like you're merely trying to die for what you believe."

And that's probably exactly what will happen. But not before I've killed her and Snow both.

"How many nukes do you think Thirteen's sitting on?" I muse distantly as the hovercraft banks slightly south. Though my gaze has drifted away from Gale, I still see his face harden across from me. He knows exactly where my mind has gone.

"You're seriously not considering leveling an entire city just to take out one guy."

I shrug. "Only as a last resort. I won't fail again. That's not an acceptable outcome this time."

"You'd kill all those people?"

"I'd attempt an evacuation of rebel forces and those aligned with us. But it would be hard to do that discreetly, without Snow figuring out what was happening. Most of the Capitol is corrupt anyway."

Gale huffs in disbelief, shaking his head. " _Wow_. You certainly have come a long way." He doesn't mean it as a compliment. I hear the note of derision in his tone, and my eyes slide back to him.

"This is war, Gale," I say calmly. "The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. The numbers in the Capitol are nothing compared to the oppressed, starving numbers in the districts. If it comes to that...well. I'm pretty sure it won't come to that."

But I'd do it without hesitation.

"Listen, Gale," I say after a short silence, my voice softer now. "When we get to the Capitol, if I fail and don't make - "

"Don't. You won't fail," he says firmly.

"But if I - "

" _Katniss_." His tone is so stern now that it's almost aggressive. " _Don't_. You're not gonna fail. We're going to get Peeta out and you're going to kill Snow, and you're going to live to gloat over it, just like we've planned." I stare at him in mild irritation and he frowns at me, a distant look of longing creeping into his eyes. "I already know what you'd want to say to me anyway," he concludes softly, his eyes dropping down to his lap.

We ride in silence until we land, and I'm greeted with scenery I don't even remotely recognize from the Victory Tour when I step out. The massive concrete structures of a thermal power station loom behind me, an imposing forest of cooling towers vomiting opaque white clouds into the sky. A loud, intimidating hum envelops me, and I resist the urge to cover my ears. It's a jarring sound, and I can feel it vibrating in my bones. This is probably the most impressive structure I've seen in my life, and it's a little intimidating just looking at it. But what really interests me is the coastline below us, in the near distance. Peeta and I didn't ever get to see this on our Victory Tour. We were confined to the square as we were in every district, and looking at this stretch of land that goes on for miles, bordered by an endless body of water where I can't even see where it ends - it's breathtaking. We didn't even get to see this in Four, as the square was situated some distance inland. I'm stricken with a moment of emptiness as I realize how much I wish Peeta was here with me to see it. I want to leave the unnerving, noisy power station and run down to the beach just to see if I could spot land on the other side. It really makes me wonder what's out there. It really makes me wonder how much more of the other districts we didn't see. ...What's on the other side of that ocean. Could it really be nothing, as we were told?

Gale's tugging my arm, leading me away from where I'm standing in stunned silence. It's too easy to get distracted. I have an objective to complete. We follow one of the many pipelines that have been built to divert the ocean water into a cooling tank on the edge of the grounds, adjacent to the storage silos. There are small hills of coal in the storage yard behind the silos, and as we move closer, that unnerving, loud hum becomes a shattering grind, causing me to apprehensively hang back. A man in a hardhat comes out to greet us, introducing himself as the senior engineer and gives us a brief explanation of how the plant operates and how we're going to destroy the reserves. The noise I'm hearing is the dissonance caused by the steam turbine and the pulverizer, which I learn is what grinds the coal into a powder before it's transported to the boiler. What he doesn't have to explain is how dangerous it would be to blow up the reserves or light them on fire. How the pollutants would devastate Five, and that the district would have to evacuate due to the environmental contamination.

Instead, he's arranged to have it dumped into the ocean. I jump out of the way as a convoy of cargo trucks makes its way up the dirt road we're currently standing in, and the engineer explains that the trucks will transport the product to a small freighter docked a few miles down the coastline, where, with the help of a handful of rebels from Four, it will go out as far as the vessel can withstand so the crew can dump the product overboard. What's currently in the silo will provide the last bit of fossil-fueled power in Panem. It isn't the best plan I've ever heard, but it's certainly better than condemning Five to the same fate that Twelve saw. Gale and I take a couple of shovels and head over to the trucks, which are backed up side by side to the storage yard. As we get closer, those hills of coal start to seem more like mountains, and the idea of loading all of this product onto the trucks is suddenly a discouragingly daunting task. But then I see the crewmen that exit the vehicles, four to each truck, and with the lot of us, perhaps it won't take too long.

To my surprise, Dalton steps out of one of them, leaning into the bed of the truck to pull out a shovel. I look to Gale questioningly and he shrugs, just as surprised to see him here as I am.

"District 10 has the infrastructure for its own power grid," he explains, seeing our puzzled expressions. "It's been there for...centuries, probably. Back when it was still part of North America. Snow doesn't know about it, and we've been maintaining it secretly over the years in case...well, this happened. We've also been relying on other sources of renewable energy, specifically wind turbines. Combined with the extraction of petroleum from old oil wells that were thought to be tapped out, I'm hoping Ten can be a substantial safety net as a power resource after we cut off power to Panem. We'll be heading to Ten when we're done here so I can speak with the electrical engineers and arrange reparations, perhaps get a few more rebels on our side in that district."

 _Ten has its own power grid_. They would take over Five's industry as power supplier to Panem. The thought is almost impossible to comprehend, and I find myself growing a little agitated at how many fascinating things I never knew about the districts, because the Capitol preferred keeping everyone in the dark as a way of keeping us caged. I think of my education in District 12 and feel helpless at how inconsequential and useless it was. It just makes me want to tour the districts more, to travel until there's nothing more to learn.

"It's a little liberating, actually," Dalton muses distantly. "That we're essentially being forced to rely on clean, renewable energy. When a nation is no longer a slave to finite resources and fluctuating, exorbitant costs, you open the door for all sorts of freedoms you never knew were possible."

My eyes travel to a massive, pipe-like chimney that's vomiting a sickeningly-colored cloud of exhaust into the air - a flue-gas stack is what it's called, if I remember the engineer's lecture correctly - and I can't help but agree.

It's mind-numbing work, shoveling coal. I imagine I'd never have survived in the mines. Combined with the dull, repetitive labor and the perpetual choking sensation from the unsettled dust, I'm secretly glad to be ridding the nation of my district's primary export. The sun is just beginning to set by the time we've cleared out the yard, and considering the amount of time and people this effort took, I'm surprised the Capitol isn't on its way to destroy us right now. Surely Snow has the means to keep his eye on every corner of the country - but then I remember he no longer has the means to do anything about it, and I smile to myself. I may have failed in taking him out, but I certainly did cripple his resources. I wish I knew where there might be a camera planted in the vicinity, so I could turn to it and give Snow my best shit-eating grin. _Look at what we're doing. What the fuck are you going to do about it? Come get me. I dare you._

Gale sits beside me as we're wedged into the back of one of the trucks with Dalton and the other crewmen, but I've practically got my nose pressed to the window for the entire ride, squinting my eyes to see if there might be visible land across that endless body of water. How far out do the boats in Four go? Do they go a limited distance by demand of Snow's authority, or are there no vessels in existence designed to go extended distances? I realize I know nothing about boats or the ocean. A small part of me actually starts to hope that I do live to see the peace after the rebellion, so that I might find out.

I immediately change my mind once we're on the freighter. I've never been on a boat before, and no one warned me about seasickness until I was already regurgitating my breakfast over the side while Gale graciously kept my braid from falling in my face. He frowns at me sympathetically as he rubs my back while I lean my elbows on the railing and hold my head in my hands, my body suddenly much too sensitive to the cold gusts coming off the water. What's worse is that the ride isn't even all that turbulent - it's the rhythmic pitch of the rolling waves that gives me a perpetual sense of vertigo, like the sensation of having missed a step when walking down a flight of stairs. It's a bit too much like feeling drunk, and closing my eyes makes it worse. I find that focusing on a specific, distant point helps a little, so I stare so hard at a mooring buoy in the distance that my eyes begin to hurt. I only look up long enough to glare at the crewmen who shout at me, asking if the greenhorn is going to make it back to shore without turning inside out. I kind of regret that I had the decency to vomit over the side of the boat; I should have just done it on the deck and left it for them to clean up. There's also an unpleasant stench lingering behind the salty air coming off the water that smells faintly of sewage, which doesn't help my situation.

Gale only leaves my side long enough to help the crewmen sink the payload, and he's right back with me for the ride back to shore with a protective arm around my shoulders, ready to steady me if I need to lean over the side of the boat to vomit some more. I'm grateful when my feet are suddenly back on dry land, but my legs feel wobbly and for some reason my mind is still convinced I'm in the water because the world sways around me every few seconds and I feel like I might pitch forward into the ground. Gale holds me up with his hands firmly guiding me by the waist as we walk back to the cargo trucks that will take Gale, Dalton and me to Five's Justice Building, and I hesitate before climbing in because I'm not sure I can take any more motion today.

"It's alright, it's not that long of a trip to the square," Gale says softly.

"Drive slow," I say to the crewman who climbs into the driver's seat.

My head immediately finds its way to Gale's shoulder where it rests for the entirety of the ride into town. His hand idly strokes my hair and it's so comforting that my nausea subsides a little, and by the time we're stepping out of the truck and into the Justice Building for a quiet dinner to welcome the Thirteen rebels, any vestiges of queasiness have completely dissipated. The aroma of roasting meat hits me as we walk in and my stomach gives a small groan, my appetite having come back slightly. For a split second, it feels like I'm on the Victory Tour again, being heralded with lavish food and hospitality and festivities, but when Gale and I sit at the table across from Five's mayor and wife, the room seems a little too big without Peeta and Effie and Haymitch. Gale's too enthralled with the food to really notice my listlessness. He's never experienced such excess in his life, going from nearly starving in Twelve to simply surviving in Thirteen. His eyes are wide when the table is set with the various dishes being served tonight, and I lean in to mumble a warning in his ear about taking it slow with the rich foods.

After dinner, we're shown to the guest wing where we'll be staying before we depart for Ten in the morning, and Gale and I take to our respective rooms. I stand under the hot water in the shower for probably an hour, scrubbing the coal dust out of my skin and hair and from beneath my fingernails, grateful that I never had to see a day in the mines. I can only imagine how horribly it must dry one's skin out. We dumped the coal hours ago and still I feel I'm choking on dust, my throat raw and scratchy where no amount of coughing will clear it. I lay in bed for what seems like hours, trying desperately to sleep and unable to quite get there. The room is much too cold, and my wet hair isn't helping. In a huff of frustration, I wrench myself from the bed and sneak across the hall to Gale's door and knock softly.

He answers in seconds, and I know he hasn't been sleeping either. He gives me a small smile and motions me in, and without a word, we climb into bed together. His body is delightfully warm, and I curl up at his side with my head on his chest as his fingers knead my back, working out the stiffness from the day's exertion. I'd be lying to myself if I said I didn't feel guilty about it. I was supposed to only ever do this with Peeta. Would he have completely come back to me if we'd succeeded in taking out Snow? He'd been showing so much promise in those last moments before he was reclaimed by the Capitol. Or perhaps I'm just romanticizing the hazy memories of our last moments together. Perhaps he still would have hated me forever anyway. There's a very good chance I'm going straight to my death as it is, so I might as well indulge in some form of physical closeness while I still have the chance. Being in Gale's protective warmth only makes me realize how starved for affection I've been over the past few weeks, and I suddenly feel horrible for nearly strangling him to death in the woods that day. I don't even know why I did it, what I was thinking when I did it, if I even noticed I was doing it in the moment. A dreadful thought occurs to me - that I probably know exactly what Peeta was experiencing when he tried to strangle _me_ to death. Only it didn't take weeks of torture and hijacking to turn me into a monster.

I already was one.

I close my eyes and clench my teeth, stifling the urge to cry. Now that things have been set in motion, I find it harder and harder not to give up and abandon the mission. Every thought revolves around the possibility of failure, all the various ways things can go wrong, what the aftermath might be if I do actually succeed and survive. I think that's the hardest part, figuring out what I'd do with myself if I came out the other end of this alive. What does a fighter do when there's no fight left? Will I be celebrated or hated? I keep wondering if I'm on the right side of this war, if maybe it really would have been better for everyone if we'd just complied like good tributes and allowed only one victor to emerge from the arena that day. If inciting a rebellion was really worth all the death and destruction that followed.

Being here in Five, I can't help but think about who really should have won the 74th Hunger Games. If the Careers had succeeded in killing Peeta. If those tracker jackers took me out. I'm more than certain Foxface would have been crowned. She would have come back here, lived a normal life as a mentor. I never knew her real name. I feel like I should. All it would take is watching the recap of the Games again and I could find out, but then that would make it too personal. It would make her too real. And I think what bothers me the most is that I'm almost certain that in another time, another world, she and I might have been friends. And now, for some reason, of all the people we've lost, I'm mourning her with the same magnitude. I never even so much as heard her speak. I think the war is finally getting to me. There's a very good chance I'm spiraling into insanity.

"Gale," I say, trying desperately to avoid the obsessive circles my mind tends to run during this time of night, "when does one stop being a freedom fighter and start becoming a terrorist?" The abstract concept of it has been bugging me for weeks, ever since we inadvertently brought those bombers down on the hospital in Eight, but I hadn't been able to find the words to voice it until just now.

He gives a small sigh and his arms tighten gently around me. "You're afraid you're taking it to an extreme." I listen to the steady beat of his heart in the silence that follows as he thinks. It's such a comforting sound that I nestle deeper into his embrace, nearly falling asleep before he can answer. "The line certainly does begin to blur at some point between the two, doesn't it?" he says finally, pulling me partially back into wakefulness. "I guess...I guess the only thing you can do is hope against hope that when the smoke finally clears, the ends will justify the means. It's hard to put a quantifiable value on lives lost and homes destroyed. Even harder to weigh them against the risks you have to take to achieve freedom. But...that you're even concerned about it in the first place at least shows some promise for your intentions." He sighs, falling silent for a brief moment as he realizes he's done nothing to put my mind at ease. "It'll be worth it, Katniss," he assures me softly.

"You're sure?"

"Promise," he whispers, and he presses his lips to my temple.

* * *

District 10 is as mystifying as Five, the ocean of water being replaced by an ocean of sand when we step out of the hovercraft the next morning. We never saw this part of Ten on our Victory Tour, and Dalton tells us we're in the northwestern part of the district - half of which is arid desert, the other half - the half Peeta and I saw on our tour - occupied by lush greenery and lakes. Vast, champagne-colored sand dunes extend for as far as I can see, with rivulets in the sand that resemble ripples in water. Just below us at the foot of the dune on which we landed is a massive piece of noisy machinery, so eerily anthropomorphic in its shape with its long neck and rhythmically bobbing head that I stare at it in mildly alarmed fascination.

"It's called a pumpjack," Dalton explains as he comes up behind me. "Petroleum was used as an energy resource centuries ago, and though we're going to avoid relying on it again as it's a finite resource, there's at least enough crude left in the old wells that we can extract it and use it until the new wind farms can be erected to supply the nation with power."

I continue staring at the rhythmic motion of the machine, feeling as though it's nodding at me. It looks too much like a strange animal, like it could uproot and walk off any moment. I learn that a massive drill bit is used to bore a hole deep into the ground, and the pumpjack pulls the product up to the surface. Dalton explains that in the old days, back before District 10 was District 10, this was actually their industry. The textbooks say that there were entire fields of these machines, along with massive, lighted rigs all across the area, but that they'd depleted this resource ages ago. Output wasn't nearly matching the cost of operating expenses, and so the nation came to rely almost exclusively on coal. An economic collapse happened, which crippled the population and especially weakened the territory that is now District Ten. But the livestock ranches were still strong, and that's how District 10 was born in the early days of Panem's emergence from war and natural disaster.

It's simultaneously validating and frightening that my plan to destroy the nation's primary energy resource has just been confirmed to be effective. It happened before, only they didn't do it on purpose. My heart begins to pound nervously in my chest, and I'm vaguely aware of Gale gently gripping my arm when he notices me hyperventilating. What have I just done? What if we can't match the output of coal energy with wind turbines and solar power? What if I've just put us back centuries? I feel my knees give out beneath me, and I'm grateful that we're on soft sand, because it would have been a hard fall otherwise. Gale stoops down next to me and motions to Dalton to give us a minute as a vehicle specifically designed to handle the terrain pulls up to the landing zone.

I stare off into the horizon, squinting in the harsh sunlight, which seems to be much brighter here than in any of the other districts due to the too-clear sky and the reflective property of the sand. It's almost painful, and I finally just close my eyes and try to get my breathing back under control. The dry heat isn't helping, and though there's a remarkably strong wind blowing, it's hot air and not a soothing breeze. There's also an awful stench carried on the wind, which smells faintly of rotting eggs. Dalton sees us wrinkle our noses and laughs, explaining that it's the inevitable smell of sour crude, which is the result of too much sulfuric impurity in the product, but that you eventually get used to it. The pumpjack below us shuts down and goes quiet, the only noise left being that of the wind howling through the dunes. I think about how familiar this environment is to that one year the Games were in an arena that was nothing but boulders and desert sand, and I wonder if it was built somewhere near here. It had to have been. I suddenly shiver, despite the suffocating heat. How is it still so hot? Twelve would be seeing snow right now.

"They wouldn't have agreed to your plan if it would have permanently devastated the nation, Katniss," Gale says.

I keep my eyes closed, but I give my best attempt at a smile at how he always seems to know exactly what I'm thinking. I wonder how long it will take to expend whatever coal is left in that storage silo. How long before the nation goes dark. How long before I have to keep my promise and take the Capitol. My eyes snap open and I abruptly stand, a small rush of urgency hitting me as I realize that it won't be long at all. Gale stands as well, and without another word, we accompany Dalton in the vehicle that's arrived to transport us to the nearest wind farm, which is a no-fly zone due to the tall structures. We pass through what I assume used to be settlements, but they're destroyed and wrecked beyond salvage - twisted metal and skeletal wood structures dot the landscape at sporadic intervals, and Dalton tells us they're the wreckage of the last cyclone that devastated the area.

Cyclones happen quite often in this area, and the Dunes - essentially Ten's version of the Seam, although remarkably larger in size - is a hazardous place to live because of extreme weather conditions and lack of wildlife. The land is impossible to cultivate, being either loose, nutrient-poor sand or hard limestone. Drought has plagued them for decades now, and the district recently had to beg the Capitol for permission to build an irrigation pipeline that extends across the district to transport water in from the coast on the opposite side of the territory. People have been dying of dehydration and hunger in Ten at a much more alarming rate than those in Twelve ever did, and I can't imagine how anyone in this kind of environment could ever hope to survive. I'm used to people dying of hunger, but I never imagined a district could be in such horrible condition that they'd be dying of _thirst_ too. They don't even have a forest in which to illegally hunt, and I feel my lip curl in horror when I hear that most of the inhabitants of the Dunes have to live off of snakes and lizards.

Strong, dust-saturated winds whip through the open vehicle as we speed across the terrain, and my face feels particularly sandblasted by the time we reach our destination. If I thought the pumpjack was creepy and lifelike, it's nothing like the field of massive, three-bladed windmills that greet us. These, too, look like they might uproot and walk off on tripod-like legs, making their appearance even more unsettling than the pumpjack.

Gale and I settle in what little shade is provided by the awning of one of several trailers that make up a temporary settlement for the engineers Dalton has come to speak with, and we're offered water while we wait. It's warm and tastes faintly of dirt, but it's safe enough and I'm so parched at this point that I really don't care. An odd, buzzing chorus hums from the dried out brush that surrounds the area, and I learn that it's the song of an insect called a cicada, which poses something of a threat to what humble crops they do manage to raise here. It's something of an annoying sound, but it's so consistent that it becomes a dull drone that we quickly learn to block out.

The conversation I overhear from the engineers gives me hope, though - that this farm provides sufficient power to the entirety of the Dunes. In a place with absolutely no resources, a barren wasteland of what should be uninhabitable terrain, they've found a way to harvest the very winds, of which they clearly have plenty. The wind farms they plan to build in other areas around Panem - even offshore, off the coast of Five - will be much larger, and should have no problem replacing what I just destroyed. I learn that offshore winds are stronger and more predictable as well, so the new power plan is guaranteed to be a success.

The sun is beginning to set when they finally wrap up their meeting, and the wind turbines become even more disturbing when they start blinking their red lights at us simultaneously through the darkening sky. I'm grateful to finally get back to the landing zone, where the hovercraft still waits to take us to Ten's Justice Building. I get to appreciate how alarmingly big Ten really is, and I wonder how everyone made it to the square for the reapings. In Twelve, we walked everywhere because the district was so small, but here, that would be impossible. Even in a vehicle, a standard trip from the Dunes to the Justice Building would take hours. Considering how drastic the difference is in landscape between the Dunes and the square that I saw on my Victory Tour, I wonder how large the district actually is.

We step out of the hovercraft to a strikingly different scene - this part of Ten is green and flush with vegetation, with a wide river running straight through the town. There are rolling green hills as far as the eye can see, and the air is thick and moist with humidity. The heat is still intense, and it's a soggy heat compared to the dry heat of the Dunes, making breathing a little difficult, but the breeze that picks up is cool and smells of rain. This part of Ten sees much more rain than the Dunes, and instead of cyclones and drought, they live in constant fear of the rivers flooding them out of their homes, with severe thunderstorms and lightning plaguing them throughout the summer due to their proximity to the coast. I'd often wondered why Ten couldn't be a fishing district as well, but overhearing Dalton with the engineers earlier, it's clear that some devastating crude oil spill happened just before the Dark Days, and it wasn't the first they'd seen, either - but it was definitely the worst, condemning the coast to indefinite toxicity. People can't even swim in the water there. They've come to rely on their many natural springs and lakes for irrigation. Still, it's clear that this part of the district is the more privileged area, comparable to that of Twelve's merchants. The kids who live here likely never have to take out tesserae.

The sun hasn't fully set when we arrive at the square, which Ten's residents have colloquially dubbed the Cong, though it never occurred to me to ask why. Dalton tells us it's been that way since before the Dark Days, and that the story that lasted the generations says it was merely because in the aftermath of the destruction brought on by climate change and war, when survivors migrated here and began to rebuild, an old, broken sign was found that said just that. It was clear there had been more to the sign at some point, though no one knew what it initially said. The Justice Building had already been there, and by some miracle, it was left standing, although in some state of disrepair. It's a little bigger than the Justice Buildings of the other districts, and bears a very subtle, pink-tinged cream color rather than the bare white of the others. Effie, in her obsession with architecture, told us it's because the building was constructed of red slate granite from a mountain nearby, though it had been completely mined out centuries ago.

The building is definitely majestic, and crossing the bridge that leads to it is admittedly breathtaking. It's especially pronounced at sunset when the bats that roost underneath the bridge fly out over the river that separates the square from the rest of the town, the last of which are making their departure as we cross. The first time Peeta and I saw them on our Victory Tour, I'd originally thought they were a plume of smoke, and only when I heard the sound of flapping wings did I realize what they were. These, too, had been here for centuries, apparently along with that bridge. Even climate change, the devastation of habitats, and nuclear war couldn't keep these animals from surviving. As long as the bridge was there, those bats would be too. It's oddly comforting, somehow.

To my surprise, Haymitch and Plutarch are waiting for us inside the Justice Building, and they don't even greet us before leading us into a War Room I didn't know existed. The technology is fairly comparable to that in Command in Thirteen, and I wonder if every district's Justice Building has always been equipped this way, or if this is a new development to accommodate recent events. It becomes very clear that the time to retake the Capitol looms sooner than I'd expected. Haymitch and Plutarch have come here to strategize our takeover. I'm caught somewhere between giddy and terrified, taking every bit of willpower I have left to focus on what they're saying. Their contact in the Capitol is still going strong, fortunately having maintained cover despite all of the risks taken in the initial assault. Peacekeepers are at an all-time low, with District Two finally siding with the rebels, so they're no longer providing Snow with security. The Peacekeepers that are left in the Capitol will still be a risk, but we won't be nearly as outnumbered as we were the first time.

"Katniss, you're still a strong climber?" Plutarch asks. I nod. "Good. We're sending you with a small squad just outside the Capitol. The disadvantage the rebels had in the last rebellion was the mountain range that separates the Capitol from the easternmost part of Panem - but the Capitol no longer has an air force at its disposal. The mountains are vulnerable. You and a small crew can easily scale the lowest point into the city with no resistance."

I nervously reach for Gale's hand, not even realizing I'm doing it until he gives it a light squeeze. This plan sounds dangerous. I can certainly do it, but just the mention of it is already intimidating. Plutarch's voice becomes a distant echo as he explains how no one will be expecting us to approach from there, and that it will be a quicker route to the tunnels under the city with less of a risk of pods taking us out. The only risk we take is exposure to the elements or falling to our death, of course.

"How are your riding skills?" Dalton asks suddenly. I abruptly look up, puzzling at the question. "Ten can provide you with horses. It should make traversing the mountains a lot easier, and they're trained to do it," he explains.

"I've...never actually been on a horse," I say sheepishly. "The first time I ever even saw one in real life was in the opening ceremonies to the Games."

Dalton frowns a little as he thinks for a moment. "I think we can give you two a crash course in the time we have before the call comes."

I keep a firm grip on Gale's hand, as if it's the only thing tethering me to the real world. _It's happening_. I thought there would be a little more time, I thought I would at least be able to return to Thirteen to say my goodbyes. My squad is being flown here as we speak, and once the power shuts off, we leave for the mountains that span the eastern border of the Capitol. There, our horses will take us through a pass in the mountains, where we'll slip into an access tunnel that should lead directly through the city to a bunker just underneath Snow's mansion. Plutarch's contact in the Capitol will be on the other side to force the blast doors open for the squad, and once the mansion is successfully infiltrated, Snow will be ours for the taking.

It's a straightforward plan, but seems impossible to me in its simplicity. Certainly there should be much more to it. What if the mountain terrain is unstable? What if the topography has changed since their map was updated and our path into the city is blocked? What if the horses don't cooperate? What if we all die of exposure in the mountains before we can even get to the city? And then there's the city itself. I keep thinking of a dozen things that could go wrong and try to work out some contingency plan to resolve them, but it only makes me even more nervous. Gale pulls me into a lasting embrace when Haymitch and Plutarch exit the room, followed by Dalton, who is going to nearby stables to fetch the horses we'll be using. I give a small, ironic _hmph_ into Gale's chest when I think, _What if I get thrown by the horse while I'm being taught to ride it and never even make it out of Ten?_

"Katniss, you're trembling so violently that you're making _me_ shake," he says.

"Come on, let's walk around," I say, pulling out of the embrace and hoping to distract myself with the interior design of the building while I wait for the horses and my squad to arrive.

Unlike the other domed buildings in the districts, Ten's Justice Building has an open air rotunda that is visible from the very first floor upon walking inside. It was dizzying the first time we were here, looking up at Ten's district seal painted onto the dome, the entire room seeming to spin after only a few seconds. Gale and I climb the stairs up, inspecting various portraits and photographs on the walls of people who were influential in Ten's development and culture. Past mayors, tributes at reapings, a very small handful of victors. We circle around to an area dedicated to festivals and cultural gatherings, and I intensely inspect one particular photo, trying to figure out what's going on in the scene depicted of a small arena filled with spectators as a girl about my age sits astride a frantic, bucking horse, one hand clutching the reins with the other outstretched above her hat, its wide brims rolled upward slightly at the sides. The scene looks insane, the horse's front hooves impacting so hard with the dirt that dust has flown up around them, its rear legs kicking back as it tries to throw the girl, but it doesn't seem like a freak accident - it looks like she's doing it for _sport_. She's leaned far enough back on the horse that I get a good look at her face beneath the brim of her hat, her scarlet hair woven in two braids, framing her pale skin and angular features. There's no mistaking it - this is a young Sterling St. Claire.

"Gale," I say tentatively, paralyzed to my spot. He doesn't answer. " _Gale_ ," I say, more stern this time. I see him abruptly turn to me out of the corner of my eye, suddenly alarmed by my tone. "Come here please." I keep my voice as calm as possible. I don't want to move from this spot, for fear I'll lose the place where this picture hangs. I need someone else to see it. I need someone else to confirm what I'm seeing, to tell me I'm not crazy.

He comes up beside me and studies me closely, waiting for me to say something, but I merely continue staring at the picture. Finally, he tears his eyes from me and leans in to inspect the picture as well, and after a couple of seconds, he lets out a small gasp. "It _can't_ be..." he whispers.

"It is."

We both whip around to Dalton, who has made his way noiselessly up the stairs and looks to the picture over our shoulders with something between a smirk and a frown. He gestures to us to follow him, and he leads us to another set of pictures nearby, all of which feature her. There's one of her hunched low on a galloping horse as it speeds around a barrel in the dirt arena. Another of her and an additional rider chasing a steer on horseback, ropes poised in the air above their heads.

"She was our rodeo queen," Dalton says softly. "Back when we were still allowed to rodeo. Snow's Peacekeepers shut that down ages ago, but she was the best bronc rider and barrel racer we'd seen in years. That girl was born to be an entertainer. She's just doing it in a different way now."

"Who the hell is she?" I ask, Gale stunned to speechlessness next to me.

"Honestly? No one," he says with a shrug. "Just a girl from District 10. I used to work on the beef ranches with her. She was the one who would go out every day and herd the cattle in from the fields. Then one day she just disappeared. There wasn't much of a market for...her type of art here, so the very few people who recognized her after the fact kept her secret." I can tell he's keeping his answer vague in case someone's listening, and I don't doubt that Ten's Justice Building is most certainly bugged. I'm surprised these pictures are even still here, out in the open, able to be seen by anyone. But then it occurs to me that anyone who might happen across these photos wouldn't really be anyone of consequence who might sell her out.

"How'd she get out? How did she get to the Capitol and convince everyone she was one of them?" I ask frantically. I fantasized so many times about leaving Twelve. Though my biggest aspiration was simply surviving in the wilds. I'd never even entertained the idea of migrating to the _Capitol_. Who would have ever thought it could be done?

"That's something you'd have to ask her," he says, shrugging again. "She had the few of us who actually found out what became of her wondering for years. But one thing is for certain - she's no damned Capitolite. She had nothing but the utmost contempt for Snow and his politics, and the only reason she ever went there was because she had every intention of bringing it down from the inside."

I remain silent for a long moment, my eyes burning into Dalton's as dozens of questions race through my head, though I know he wouldn't be able to answer a single one of them. Gale is still paralyzed beside me, his eyes wide and vacant as he stares at the floor. I think about the centerfold spreads he showed me back in his compartment in Thirteen, and I really begin to appreciate the true suggestiveness behind the one with the riding crop between her teeth. And then the other of her atop one of the chariot horses for the opening ceremonies. Photos that were really subtle nods to her roots, flagrantly rubbing her deceit in the Capitol's face.

"She's our informant in the Capitol, isn't she? She's going to be on the other side of those blast doors," I say, having suddenly put the pieces together.

Dalton nods slowly. None of us dares to say her name, which is most likely an assumed name, anyway. I want to ask her real name, but I know it doesn't much matter, and saying it aloud would likely endanger her. I wonder what she's doing with Peeta. If he knows her secret. If she has something planned for him or if she's merely protecting him. I realize I'm no longer trembling, and the pounding in my chest has finally slowed to a normal tempo. For some reason, this knowledge has put me marginally at ease. Maybe we really _can_ do this.

"At any rate, your horses are waiting outside, along with your squad," Dalton says finally.

It's a group of my best soldiers, and to my surprise, Johanna is among them. She's a little twitchy, but seems to have put on a little weight and has regained some of her coloring, and is otherwise healthier than I've seen her lately. This is pronounced by a sense of palpable determination in her expression and posture, and when Dalton comes over to begin our instruction, she's the first one into her saddle. What doesn't surprise me is when Boggs 2 emerges from the hovercraft, lagging much behind everyone else, a sort of clear plastic mask covering his nose and cheekbones, as if it's actually holding his face in place. He's still a little unrecognizable, and a faint railroad of stitching runs across his face, but it isn't difficult to catch the murderous scowl he sends me, nonetheless. I merely sigh and roll my eyes. Coin will never stop trying, that much is clear. He comes to a stop just in front of me, scowling down his now-crooked nose at me, awaiting orders with his most sarcastic expression.

"You gonna be a problem?" I ask coldly, staring boldly back into his eyes.

"Not unless you are," he says, matching my tone.

"Good. Then get the fuck on your horse."

I expect him to shoot me in the back at any moment.

The prospect of horse riding was a little daunting at first, but I turn out to be rather good at it. They're docile and cooperative enough, broken and trained to assist the workers of Ten in their industry. A couple of my soldiers have a hard time staying in their saddles when we take our horses into a gallop, but I highly doubt that will be a problem once we're in the mountains. The terrain will keep us at a slow pace. A part of me actually wishes I'd had a horse when I used to hunt in the woods in Twelve. It's one of the most useful creatures I've ever seen, and I can imagine how much easier it would be to take down a fleeing buck on one of these. After a while, the rumbling in our stomachs forces us to stop, and our horses are stabled as we go inside for a quiet dinner with the mayor. At one point the lights flicker above us and the sound of silverware on plates goes silent for a few seconds as we hold our breath, but the flickering stops and the lights continue to burn brightly as we finish.

We're shown to the guest wing, and Gale and I don't even bother with the image of propriety, taking to the same room without any regard to who may be watching. There's no telling how long we have until the power goes off, and I really don't want to spend that time laying awake in an empty bed in the dark. After dinner, the mayor presented the two of us with a bottle of Ten's finest white liquor as a token of welcome, which he explained was distilled from corn in a pot still that has been around since before anyone can remember. Gale and I end up drinking the entire thing in our room, surprised that a district as humble and overlooked as Ten could make a liquor so surprisingly smooth. It's nothing like the liquor from the Hob or whatever swill Haymitch hoards in Thirteen, which might as well be antiseptic, for all we know. This has a mildly sweet aftertaste, and we're both pleasantly drunk by midnight. I'm almost certain Haymitch would be furious and a little wounded that we'd acquired something like this without sharing it with him, but Gale and I are drifting off in each other's arms before I can start to feel guilty about it.

I think for the first time - and quite possibly the last - I'm actually content.

* * *

 _I lay naked on my stomach with my cheek pressed against my pillow as I stare listlessly out my bedroom window in the Training Center. I find something simplistically beautiful about the geometric patterns of the skyline, the backdrop of the snow-capped mountains. The sun is setting behind them, and the city lights are coming to life. I'm feeling particularly fatigued, but too emotionally wired to really be able to sleep. I hung an effigy of Seneca Crane today. No one is pleased with me. I'm not sure I care. Even when I wasn't being sent off to my death, I never much cared for anyone's opinion._

 _The mattress shifts beneath me as Peeta sits on the bed beside me, and I feel the warmth of his hand on the back of my knee. He rests it there for a moment, then slowly glides his palm up the back of my thigh, over the curve of my backside, up my back, and finally comes to rest on the back of my neck. I give a slight, satisfied writhe beneath his hand, and he gives the back of my neck a gentle squeeze. My face is turned away from him, but I know he's silently appreciating my naked body, and I can practically feel his gaze on me as he stares. His hand slides back down and comes to rest on my backside, giving it a light squeeze as well. I close my eyes and draw a deep breath, remembering the startling yet gratifying pain of when he smacked me there in a heated moment of sexual impulsiveness. I'd been briefly embarrassed and somewhat indignant, but then I was confused as to why I enjoyed it. That such a display of dominance and playful kink could come from_ Peeta _, of all people._

 _I hear him give a low chuckle, and I open my eyes to see him smirking at my reflection in the darkened window, having seen my reaction. He knows what I'm thinking about, and he gives my backside another squeeze. He rises from the bed and circles around to stand in front of me, and when I meet his gaze, his face is sincere._

 _"You trust me, don't you?" he asks softly._

 _I hold his gaze and nod slowly. My heart begins pounding in my chest, and I know the only reason he'd ask me that with such deadened sincerity is because he's about to do something provocative and adventurous and maybe even the slightest bit deviant, and I can't say it doesn't excite me a little bit. I try to control my breathing so I don't give away how aroused I am. For some reason, I still have a hard time giving him that satisfaction. Perhaps because I feel guilty for being aroused by him in the first place. I begin to turn over, but he stops me with a firm hand on my waist._

 _"Don't move," he instructs._

 _I flatten back on my stomach, watching him in silence as he opens the bedside drawer and pulls out a kerchief, which he folds once diagonally before reaching forward to arrange my hands above my head, crossing one wrist over the other so that he can bind them together, my right hand lying flat on the pillow beneath my left. He's secured the bindings so that I'm adequately restrained, but not uncomfortable and won't have any telltale marks tomorrow. He pulls another linen from the drawer, folding it over multiple times before placing a hand under my chin so that he can gently tilt my head back._

 _"Open," he says. I reluctantly open my mouth, and he delicately tucks the kerchief between my teeth. "Can you breathe?" he asks. I nod, and he guides my head back down to the pillow. He's no longer sheepish or playful or teasing. He's a predator now. I'd find his cold expression worrisome if I didn't catch the brief glint in his eyes, eyes that could never quite be fierce, no matter how seductive he could get._

 _"If at any point you wish for me to stop, just tap out," he says, demonstrating by tapping his palm three times on the pillow. If I weren't gagged, I'd smile. I remember the wrestling competitions back in Twelve, how many of the guys at school tapped out after one round with him in the ring. What a striking contrast to how it's being utilized now._

 _He keeps his iron stare on me as he unfastens his belt, slowly pulling it from his belt loops. I watch him grip the buckle in his palm and wrap the belt tightly around his fist twice, and I close my eyes and give a muffled groan from behind the gag, my breathing becoming slow and heavy. I feel the leather against the tender flesh of my bottom as he slowly drags his belt across my skin, and I squirm against the mattress, an anticipatory whimper escaping my throat despite my efforts to stifle it._

 _"Do you know what's about to happen to you?" he says in a hushed voice._

 _I open my eyes and meet his gaze again, giving a slow nod._

 _"Do you want me to continue?"_

 _I hesitate, feeling my body jolt with each violent heartbeat. I nod again._

 _Truth be told, I'm not entirely sure. I took his hand with no problem, but I have no idea what the belt will be like. I don't know how much it will hurt, but what worries me the most is that I might end up enjoying it. How obscene that would make me. I find considerable comfort in the fact that I'll only be three hand taps away from getting out of it, which makes it that much more enjoyable. Adventurous, but safe. I don't know if I'm more nervous or excited. I bury my face in the pillow to hide the blush that flushes my cheeks, and not a second later, I hear the sharp whistle of the leather cutting through the air before feeling it crack against my bottom. I gasp and my eyes water a little, and I cringe beneath the blow, but the pain is fleeting and brief. He didn't hit me that hard, actually, and the wide strap has enough surface area that it's not a cutting pain, but somehow a gratifying one that's immediately followed by warmth and a ridiculously heightened sense of awareness. I feel a brief twinge between my legs, and I squirm beneath the leather as he gauges my reaction. I turn back onto my cheek so that he can see my face, and his eyes are still impassive and cold, shifting from my face to my hands. I keep them still._

 _I jump slightly at the next blow, and the next, but then it becomes a dull, throbbing warmth interspersed with brief, sharp pain that surprisingly isn't unbearable, and my cringes slowly melt into gratified writhing. He isn't being rough, not really. He's applying just enough force so that I feel it, but this isn't meant to harm or injure. This is specifically designed for pleasure. I didn't even know such a thing could be enjoyable in such a way. He obviously knows what he's doing. I wonder if he read about this in a book. He pauses sporadically between blows, building the anticipation or giving me time to tap out, or both. My flesh is stinging considerably and I know it's probably red and bruised, but I'm not ready for him to stop. I arch my hips back, groaning behind the gag as warmth spreads between my legs, a nagging throb followed by the inevitable seeping sensation of moisture. He doesn't ignore the backs of my thighs either, and I get through twenty lashes before he stops. My brows crease as I shoot him a questioning glance, and he chuckles as he sits on the bed next to me, the frigid impassiveness having melted back into his usual good-natured charm._

 _"You're going to bruise considerably," he says, gently extracting the gag from my mouth, then moving to untie my wrists. "You may not feel that much pain now, but that's the adrenaline. You'll definitely feel it tomorrow."_

 _"How do you know? I could have taken more."_

 _He laughs again. "Katniss, you're shaking."_

 _He's right. I hadn't even noticed until he pointed it out._

 _"Eventually you'd be able to take more, but that's one of those things that needs to build up a tolerance. Your body can only take so much physical trauma before it punches out for the day, regardless of how much your mind can take it," he says, lightly tapping my temple with his fingertips._

 _I can't disagree with him. Of all the people who would know something like that, it would be him. I writhe a little into the mattress, uncomfortable from the throbbing between my legs and the sogginess that has spread into the sheets beneath me. I'm a little embarrassed at how aroused it made me, but I know Peeta would be the last to judge me for it._

 _He leans forward so that his lips brush against my ear, and I tremble again. "You're blushing, Katniss," he whispers. I feel his hand snake up between my thighs, his fingertips lightly brushing along the moisture between my legs, his touch light and feathery against the throbbing there. "Did you enjoy taking my belt across your ass?"_

 _I wince and reluctantly nod._

 _"Are you embarrassed that you enjoyed it?"_

 _"A little," I admit._

 _I feel his breath against my ear as he laughs, and he slides his hand underneath me so that he can press his finger against that tender bundle of nerves nestled between my folds, causing me to compulsively grind against his hand. "Still so pure," he teases. "You should never let the austerity of convention shame you for your desires, Katniss. ...Would you like me to do something about this, then?" he asks, running the tip of his finger along my opening, causing me to arch my hips back in the hope that he'll slide his fingers inside me._

 _"Please," I gasp._

 _He massages me with his hand for a while, but the pressure of his finger is light enough that it won't quite bring me to climax. He's keeping me on the edge on purpose. I give a small moan when I finally feel his weight over me, his erection resting between my thighs, and I impatiently arch back against him when I feel the head of his cock at my opening, teasing me with reluctance. I groan into the pillow when I feel him finally push into me, wincing against the initial discomfort. It hurts a little, but it's gratifying to be filled in this way. I feel his lips, warm and gentle against the back of my neck, on my shoulder, the curve of my ear. Comforting kisses as I let my muscles become accustomed to the discomfort inside me. I love this angle, I love that I can bury my face in the pillow and muffle my cries if I'm in the mood for discretion. He rests his hands on either side of my head, lightly covering my own hands so that I'm superficially pinned down. His fingertips caress the backs of my hands, eventually intertwining with my fingers, this one little gesture making it that much more intimate._

 _"I'm not going to last long," I warn him breathlessly, arching back against him, taking him deeper inside me._

 _"Neither will I," he mumbles, his voice muffled because he's taken my ear between his teeth._

 _He releases one of my hands so that he can reach down beneath me and continue massaging me in small, rhythmic circles, and he buries his face in my neck and groans as I arch against him again. His lips part against my neck and I feel the sharp pain of his teeth in my skin, and my climax suddenly hits me in violent waves. He finishes moments later, his teeth clamping down on my shoulder to stifle his moans, and I reach back to tangle my fingers in his hair as he empties himself inside me. He collapses against me, his heart pounding against my back as his fingers continue tracing the back of my hand. He eventually rolls off of me, and I hear him hiss between his teeth as I feel his fingertips gingerly touch my stinging bottom where his belt hit me._

 _"Your prep team's definitely going to see that," he says grimly, though there's a hint of playfulness in his tone._

 _He hoists up from the bed and disappears into the bathroom for a moment, where I hear cabinets and drawers open and close before he returns with a small canister that vaguely resembles the one that was delivered to me in the arena last year when I was burned. I dramatically cringe at his initial touch, finally feeling the rawness of my skin, but whatever he's applying to the welts is soothing and cool, and eventually the pain dulls into a tingling discomfort, which melts into relieved pleasure. The mere intimacy of his fingers lovingly massaging the marks he inflicted is enough to make me feel another twinge of arousal between my legs. There's a sharp throb in my neck and my shoulder where he bit me as well, but I hope he doesn't tend to those. I want those to stay. I want that pain to be fresh. I hope it didn't leave too conspicuous of a mark._

 _"Why did I enjoy it?" I ask lethargically, the soothing touch of his fingers nearly causing me to drop off to sleep. I'm actually mortified that I enjoyed taking his belt so much, and I want there to be an explanation for it. A logical reason that might excuse me for being a freak._

 _He takes a measured, deep breath, and he huffs out a small laugh as he exhales. "Psychologically? We could speculate on that for days. Physiologically? Pain releases the same endorphins as pleasure. The heightened awareness and the anticipation brought on by carefully applied pain in a controlled environment combined with the trust that comes with consent and safety can make for a generally intense experience."_

 _He says it with the conviction of an expert, and he's so casual about it, as if it's the most natural thing in the world. I can't properly feel ashamed when he's being so nonchalant about it. He screws the lid back on the canister and sets it on the bedside table, then lays down beside me, outstretching his arms in invitation. I immediately melt against his chest, suddenly realizing how much I need this in the aftermath of the vulnerability inspired by being under his belt. We lay in silence for a long time, the hypnotic beat of his heart nearly pulling me into sleep when I feel his arms tighten around me with renewed intensity._

 _"You know why it has to be you, Katniss," he says, his voice low and grim. "You know why, don't you?"_

 _I stiffen in his embrace, and I want to look up at him, but I know if I do, his expression will eviscerate me. "It's not going to work out that way," I answer flatly._

 _He gives an impatient huff, and I feel him shake his head. "Katniss, what am I going to go back to? There's nothing for me in Twelve. I can't...I can't live in a world where you don't exist. I don't see myself lasting very long after being crowned if I make it out of that arena. I give it a week before I commit suicide. You at least have people to return to. People who depend on you. You - "_

 _"Stop," I say, surprised by the aggressiveness in my tone. "You act like I wouldn't care if you died, like it wouldn't hurt me." I'm so offended that I finally risk glancing at his face, and thankfully his expression isn't wounded or tragic, but determined and assertive._

 _"No, I know it would," he concedes. "But you'd eventually get over it. You'd move on. You'd still have your family, and you'd marry Gale, and you'd be happy with him. I'd only ever have myself. I can't live a fulfilling life without you in it. That's why getting you home alive is the only reasonable outcome of this. It's why Haymitch and I agreed on it the first time around."_

 _A year ago, he would have been right. But too much has happened between us. We've grown together in a way I never would have anticipated, and now I can't see living in a world without him, either. And the realization of this is so overwhelming that the sob escapes my throat before I even feel it building there, and his arms are tight around me as we feverishly cling to one another, at an impasse as to which one would miss the other more. I'd never be able to be with Gale. I'd always dwell on the possibility of what might have been. I'd never be able to have a meaningful relationship with anyone ever again, because I'd be too disappointed in the fact that they weren't_ him _._

 _"You do me a favor," he says, his voice wavering slightly as he swallows the emotion behind it. I turn my face up to him and there are tears glistening in his eyes, but they're burning into mine with an intensity and a conviction I don't think I've ever seen on him before. "You kill Snow for me. If I'm allowed one last dying wish, it's that you kill that bastard, for tearing us apart like this. Will you promise me, Katniss? Promise me."_

 _I have to clench my jaw to keep from falling apart into hysterical weeping, but the tears fall silently down my face as I nod. "I promise," I whisper._

I jolt awake, my gasp shaky from the sob behind it. The room is unreasonably hot, and the sheets are drenched in my sweat. Was it this hot before? I turn to Gale, who restlessly shifts in his sleep, sprawled uncomfortably and glistening with a sheen of sweat as well. I sit up and lean forward, resting my forehead in my hands, my throat still tight from dream-weeping and the threat of tears stinging my eyes. Would Peeta have haunted me this way if he'd died in the arena, as he'd wanted? I don't doubt it for a second.

I notice the vestiges of arousal still tingling between my legs, and there's an uncomfortable moisture seeping there. I feel so hot and uncomfortable that the idea of any kind of exertion is extremely discouraging, but the ache between my legs is so intense that I'm not sure I care. I chance another sideways glance at Gale, who is restless but seemingly out cold, not having my tolerance for liquor. I ease myself back against the pillows and turn over onto my stomach, surreptitiously snaking my hand down beneath me. I writhe against my hand, trying to keep my movements to a minimum so that I don't wake Gale, and I think about Peeta's cock inside me as my fingers work efficiently to bring me to a swift climax. I don't draw it out or make an elaborate time of it as I would if I were alone. I just need the release. At this point, I really don't care about propriety or how fucked up it is that I'm rubbing myself out to thoughts of another guy while Gale sleeps beside me. At least I'm not exploiting him for his cock while I think about Peeta. Right now, that's the best I can do as far as charity is concerned. I bury my face in the pillow so that my moans are muted, and I think I actually gasp Peeta's name.

Would Gale have done half the things in bed that Peeta did with me? It's unlikely. I don't doubt Gale's passion, but he's a methodical, deliberate lover where Peeta is spontaneous and, I daresay, a little kinky. I can't imagine Gale ever reddening my ass with his belt, or even reacting to the suggestion of it without revulsion and horror.

Gale shifts beside me again and I jerk my head up from the pillow to ensure that he hasn't woken. He turns over on his stomach, and I wince when I see the angry scars latticed across his back from when Thread whipped him in the square. There's a deadened, sinking sensation in my chest as the guilt hits me, and I wrench myself from the discomfort of the dampened sheets and head to the bathroom. My hand flips at the light switch but nothing happens, and I turn to flip the other switch, thinking I've got the wrong one. Nothing happens. I flip them both impatiently and then freeze, holding my breath as I listen for the quiet hum of the ventilation system, which should be keeping the rooms cool.

There's nothing but silence.

I stand paralyzed to the spot for a moment as the rushing in my ears drowns out any ability for me to think clearly, the violent pounding of my heart making it feel like my entire body is jolting rhythmically with each beat. Forcing myself to stay calm, I very deliberately clean myself off, wiping the fluids from between my legs and cleaning up as best I can in the dim moonlight filtering in through the window. The water in the shower is tepid at best, but it's not too unbearable due to the stifling heat.

My hair drips water onto Gale's face as I lean over him moments later, and I gently shake him to rouse him. "Gale, wake up," I hiss.

He jolts awake and squints at me in confusion. "Katniss, what is it? What time is it?"

"Gale," I say urgently. "It's time."

* * *

The mountains surrounding the Capitol are a striking contrast to District Ten. The air is so cold that each breath brings on the urge to cough violently, my lungs never quite adjusting to the chill. We've all been provided proper clothing to insulate us from the cold, and our horses are resilient and efficient as they lead us through the terrain. Gale rides in silence beside me, his face set in determination. I wonder if he's even more dedicated to this effort than I am. I wonder what will become of us after all of this is over, if Peeta survives. I wonder if he's thinking the same thing, and that's why he's so withdrawn right now. Johanna and Boggs 2 ride behind us, and every so often I'll turn around to do a head count of my squad and look for signs of altitude sickness, and each time, I catch Johanna giving him a sideways glance of mistrust and contempt, her hand always resting over the ax at her hip.

Any doubt I may have had about the mission dissipates. We're at a topographical saddle in the mountains, and the horses handle it with ease. Combined with the reassurance I get from Johanna having my back, I gain a new confidence in our success. It takes us a day and a half to reach the Capitol. We're exhausted and slumping in our saddles by the time we get to the access shaft in the mountains that leads to the maintenance tunnels under the city, but we're ahead of schedule and haven't run into any problems. I'm certain that at some point, something is bound to go wrong, but as long as we get into the city, I'll be able to handle it. We lead our horses as deep into the tunnels as we can and tether them before the schematics Plutarch gave us indicate possible pod locations.

Of course, we miss the acid showers, which spray from sprinklers in the conduit above us, taking out two of my squad. Another falls through a drainage hole. The deeper we go, the more unpredictable the tunnels get, and some distance from the bunker, we're ambushed by Peacekeepers who begin firing at us, scattering us and causing me to lose the rest of my squad. I frantically shout into my headset for Gale and Johanna, and I wish I'd actually learned Boggs 2's name so I could shout out for him as well, but there's nothing but radio silence from my earpiece. Looking for them would cause us to lose time, or I could get lost in the tunnels, or worse - killed before I can carry out my mission. All I can do is hope they were able to escape, or if they didn't, that they got a swift death. I'm very likely about to die as well, and all that matters now is that I kill Snow.

I'm alone when another patrol of Peacekeepers intercepts me just before I get to the bunker, all of which I'm able to take out with my gun. The blast doors are only a few yards in front of me, and as I hear the frantic approach of footsteps echo down the tunnel, I break into a sprint in the hope that I can reach the doors before the approaching patrol can get me in their sights. Hopefully Sterling heard the gunfire and is waiting on the other side of that door to let me in, because I can't be sure if Snow has a backup generator to power the security cameras mounted above it. I'm almost on top of the doors when I hear the wail of a pneumatic siren sounding within, and they slowly begin to part upon my approach.

I come to an abrupt halt when I see that the person waiting for me on the other side of the doors is not the red-haired entertainer from District Ten.

It's Peeta.

And his rifle is pointed right at my head.


	9. Animal Instinct at its Best

_.Peeta._

 _A bothersome, persistent beep echoes rhythmically nearby, pulling me back to merciless consciousness. I fight to ignore it, trying not to let it pull me to the surface. The pain has been so excruciating, the cold stream sometimes jolting me awake and causing me to stiffen and aggravate the wound in my leg, that I want nothing more than to sleep until this wound finally kills me. What is that infernal beeping, anyway? What in the arena would make that sound? A jabberjay?_

 _I start awake and gasp as I'm met with the shocking relief of a dim, sterile room that smells of antiseptic, rather than the grimy mud bank I'd lain in for days. The beeping is coming from a machine that's monitoring my heartbeat. I feel lethargic and detached, like I'm floating. Everything is a little hazy, and I can't even really summon the desire to move. I shift my eyes a little and take note of the tubes running into my arm and realize I'm probably very heavily sedated. I'd likely panic if I wasn't, but right now I just feel peaceful._

 _Very slowly, my recent memories come back, of the mutts ripping Cato apart while Katniss and I huddled together on top of the Cornucopia. Katniss pulling out those berries. The announcement of our victory. The hovercraft lifting us up, and then me finally collapsing to the floor, blacking out from blood loss and pain. All of that really did happen, right? My head is so fuzzy that my memory feels shaky, and thinking takes too much effort. Instead I just lay still as I stare up at the ceiling, at least thankful that the lights are so dim so that it's easy on my eyes. I wonder where Katniss is right now. I'd very much like to see her, but perhaps later, when I resemble something a little more than a vegetable._

 _I'm surprised I'm even alive. I didn't really expect to wake up again. The Capitol's doctors and technology must be very impressive, because I can't even feel the pain in my leg anymore. How long have I been out? Could they have healed it that quickly? I try to flex it a little, but it must have fallen asleep or I'm more sedated than I originally thought because it's not responding. With increased effort, I hoist myself up in the bed and pull the sheet back._

 _I clamp my hand over my mouth as bile rises up in my throat, and I have to swallow hard to prevent from vomiting when I'm met with a stump wrapped in bloody bandages. I break out in a cold sweat, and the machine that monitors my heart begins to beep frantically as I start to tremble. My breathing turns into a disjointed pant, which turns into a grating scream as my fingers tentatively touch the bandages, clawing at the sickening feeling of the place where my leg should be. A horrific, irrational thought occurs to me and I frantically lift the waistband of the standard undershorts I'm wearing, my sigh of relief lost in my jagged, panicked breaths at the realization that at least they didn't cut_ that _off, too._

 _The beeping from the heart monitor is frenzied and unnatural, and I have the vague understanding that no one's heartbeat should be that rapid just before I feel something cold enter my veins from the tube in my arm, and I'm forced back into blackness._

My guttural rasps are what startle me awake, and I violently bolt upright in the bed, my hand naturally flying to my prosthetic. The room is dark and I'm still a little disoriented, and my hand migrates toward the other side of the bed as I reach out for the reassurance of a warm body beneath my fingertips.

"Katniss," I whisper.

Wait. Katniss?

No, that's not right. That's not my life anymore. She isn't here. I close my eyes and concentrate on getting my breathing under control, waiting for the comforting touch of Sterling's hand smoothing across my stomach as she reaches out to me in her sleep, of Crispin's soft lips on my jawline as he idly pulls me close. Who did I go to bed with last night? But then I remember that I'm angry with them both, and I went home to an empty bed. And I'm completely alone. There is no one here to comfort me now.

I press my fingertips to my closed eyelids, wishing I could go back to sleep but knowing it won't happen. Of course the moment when I need someone the most is the moment I've pushed everyone away. It's overwhelming, my longing for affection in this moment. All of my dream emotions are still a violent, turbulent storm in my chest, reminding me of how fragile and horrified and _not whole_ I felt that first time I woke up to a missing limb. I got over it eventually, especially when it became clear to me that my prosthetic might very well be an improvement on the real thing, but it's hard to forget the initially petrifying feeling of emptiness that comes with a trauma like that. I hate that feeling - that sensation of blackness that spreads within my chest, as though a shadow has been cast over my heart. It's an emotion I felt too often when I was just some lovesick, abused kid from District Twelve, and I have no desire to be reminded of it. The tremors that have consumed my chemical-starved body aren't helping, either. I just want to be numb.

I force myself from the bed and wrench drawers open, upending neatly folded stacks of overpriced clothing until I find it, snugly tucked away in a corner of a bottom drawer - a small black case that resembles the one that Snow gave me, though this one was acquired from a dealer on the black market in a moment of desperation, when I experienced my very first symptoms of withdrawal. The vial inside is presumably a venom-morphling hybrid, though for all I know, it could be just as lethal as the poison Snow gave me to assassinate his rivals. I'm not sure I care. I don't want to feel right now. Or ever, really.

It's definitely composed of tracker jacker venom - my veins scream in protest and it feels as though they're being burned away with acid, the pain so excruciating that I collapse and claw at the hardwood floors with such desperation that my fingers begin to bleed. I'd scream if my teeth weren't clenched so tightly together. The pain subsides in minutes though, and a warmth seeps through my extremities the moment the morphling hits my heart, and it's nothing but shiny, floating bliss. The walls are dripping. The air is dancing. The ceiling is concave. The city lights outside the panoramic windows are winking and spinning at me, and all I can do is lay on the floor and stare listlessly at the moving, colorful world that my townhouse has become.

 _"I'm from District Ten, Peeta."_

Sterling's voice was nothing more than a whisper when she'd sat down across from me, not daring to meet my eyes, her gaze empty and distant as she stared down at the floor. A long silence stretched between us as she seemed to deliberate on continuing, her eyes darting to my face as though she expected me to say something. When I didn't, she proceeded to explain how her brother won the 56th Hunger Games, when she was only eight years old. Her father being the butcher in a district whose industry is livestock, she would have generally been neglected had it not been for her older brother, who protected her, cared for her, and essentially raised her.

Until he was reaped.

A lifetime of hauling and lifting carcasses in the slaughterhouse had made him strong, with a build not much unlike my own, so that the Careers allied with him in the bloodbath at the Cornucopia. His wavy, vibrant red hair won him a fair amount of admirers in the Capitol; combined with his unnatural resilience against the cold from long hours in the refrigerated rooms where Ten's livestock carcasses were stored, he had a significant advantage from the start. Against all odds, the boy from District 10 won the Games. He'd been eighteen years old, and had barely had time to enjoy the benefits of his winnings before he was sold in the Capitol.

He quickly became the voice of dissent. He'd tried to ignite a rebellion. Unfortunately he wasn't discreet enough, or he'd trusted the wrong people, because he, too, was tortured and eventually hijacked. When he was finally released from the Capitol and returned home to Ten, his main objective was to kill his entire family. And he did, until he turned on Sterling. A moment passed between them, an innocent little girl staring up into the eyes of the brother she had so unconditionally devoted her trust and her love, and she didn't cry, or scream, or beg, or question him. She would have stared back up at him in silent acceptance while he slashed her to pieces. But in that moment, something faltered inside him, and the old version of himself, fighting to break free, did the impossible in what would be his last moment of triumph, and turned the knife on himself, so that he might never hurt his little sister ever again.

Wanting nothing more than to avoid ending up in Ten's community home - which was probably worse than the one in Twelve - she begged the ranch hands that tended the livestock to take her in, that she would earn her keep and work just like the rest of them. Initially they had laughed at her, but being the butcher's daughter, she had considerable strength and could wield a knife with unrivaled precision, and learned to handle a whip just the same. She turned out to be an excellent rider as well, and by the time she was eleven, she was herding the cattle in from the fields, bareback on a stallion that was temperamental and uncooperative for everyone except her. She tended the horses as well - feeding them, grooming them, breaking them for ranch work. She occasionally poached in the wilds outside the district as well, a whip being her primary weapon. She was a performer back then, too, competing in an arena spectacle called a rodeo, participating in reckless, dangerous sports that involved crazed livestock until the Peacekeepers saw it as a form of endurance training and, not wanting to make Ten's residents any more resilient, shut the whole thing down and bulldozed the humble dirt arena where the contestants performed.

In the months that followed, she silently planned her escape and eventual revenge. She would never let Snow get away with what he'd done to her brother and her family. She'd had every intention of leaving the day of her last reaping, just in case her name was drawn. She didn't want to endanger herself or her district if by some horrible happenstance she'd been reaped and turned up missing. But by then her anger had built to such a breaking point that she threw caution to the winds and left in the middle of the night when she was only seventeen. With nothing but her stallion, her whip, and a few essential items, she rode through the wilds until she reached the Capitol, trekking over the mountains - which were, by then, completely unguarded - and eventually into the city itself.

Using her wits and the power of manipulation, she seduced and charmed her way into the various underground theaters, performing under her assumed name and gaining eccentric, wealthy admirers who showered her with gifts and money, which eventually grew into the sizable estate she has now, garnished significantly by her income from her sold out performances and the revenues from the nightclubs she acquired along the way. In the immediate years that followed her rise to notoriety, a small handful of Peacekeepers from Ten recognized her and posed the threat of identifying her - to which Sterling dismissively mentioned that they were _effectively silenced_ , offering no further explanation. From there, she had considerable influence to lead the growing rebellion in the Capitol. It was the perfect cover - she had exposure, but wasn't particularly scrutinized, because ' _who would honestly suspect espionage and treason from a stripper?'_

I was shocked to learn that there were others from the districts who had made their way to the Capitol as well, masquerading under assumed identities, all biding their time until the moment came to strike, to bring it down from within. She befriended one particular rebel from District 3, who ensured that any bugs planted in her home were diverted and replaced with stock recordings that would never arouse any suspicion, which would explain why she so often spoke freely without the fear of discovery. Ten years she's spent in the Capitol, convincingly pretending to be one of them, forming alliances and building the foundation of the rebellion, waiting for the right moment to carry out her revenge. Waiting for someone to ignite the uprising.

I sat unnaturally still for the entirety of her confession, the glass in my hand straining against my iron grip, my tensed muscles shaking as I tried to process everything she said. I didn't say anything for a long time after she'd finished, and finally I started to idly flip through the pages of the logbook still in my lap, desperate for something to occupy my racing thoughts. At first, my mind didn't really process what my eyes saw. Numbers and letters and names and places. Signatures and addresses and boring ledgers with inventory lists and pour costs and repairs for stage rigging. I'd stared, unseeing, at one particular page for what must have been a full five minutes, feeling her watching me, sensing her apologetic, sympathetic expression and hating it, when my eyes finally focused and I realized I was looking at a medical record, of sorts. Time, date, and facility where she donated blood. A Positive, same as me.

I very slowly closed the logbook, then leaned forward and gingerly set it down on the table in front of me as though it might detonate.

"Was it you?" I'd whispered. "Was it your blood in me, then? That kept me alive while I was being tortured?"

How I'd hated that mysterious, faceless person. How I'd cursed them for their supposed generosity. I didn't have to look at her to see her tragic expression, that her brows came together as though she were on the verge of tears.

"I don't know," she whispered. "It's a pretty common blood type. It could have been anyone."

"And then it could have been you."

How many people in the Capitol are selfless enough to donate blood, really?

"What would even compel you to take a risk like that? Don't you know how easy it could be for them to identify you that way?" I couldn't be angry at her for keeping me alive. That would be a horrible thing to be angry about, so instead I tried to be angry about her so carelessly endangering herself.

"Peeta..."

I winced at how wounded her voice sounded, but I didn't dare look at her. I _couldn't_ look at her. I was too angry.

"Peeta, I couldn't have known. We had no way of knowing what they were going to do to you."

"Did you know about what the rebels had planned for the Quarter Quell?" I asked, my voice a forced calm as I seethed with barely contained rage.

I saw her very grimly nod out of the corner of my eye, and I downed the rest of my drink in one swallow. In a melancholy tone, she continued to explain that Katniss and I were what she and the other rebels had essentially been waiting for, and she didn't even hesitate to spend an exorbitant amount of money on making sure we stayed alive in the arena both times. It was nothing to her, really, compared to her net worth. And then, when I was rescued from the Capitol by Thirteen's rebels, and Snow executed my prep team on live television, Sterling appealed to Snow by lamenting her lack of a stylist now that her initial one was dead - it had been Cinna, apparently - and that the only apt replacement would be Portia. And so she'd saved my stylist from being executed, because she figured having a familiar face in the Capitol would make my situation at least marginally less traumatic.

"Then why all this?" I asked, finally looking up at her and gesturing vaguely in the air. "Why this charade with me? What are you even doing with me?"

"My main objective from the very beginning was to get you back to _her_."

That was enough. In a white-hot spasm of uncontrollable rage, I flung the glass down, where it shattered against the leg of the table. I can't say I wasn't slightly disappointed that Sterling didn't even cringe. She merely continued to sit motionless across from me, completely unperturbed by my outburst as though she'd expected it, that infuriating neutral expression still fixed on me.

"And did it ever occur to anyone to ever ask me?!" I shouted, leaning forward in my seat before rising so quickly I nearly knocked the chair backward. "Nobody ever fucking asked _me_!"

So enraged I was, that yet again, someone I trusted couldn't even respect me enough to treat me like an adult. To regard me as anything other than fragile and wounded. Again, I was kept in the dark because I was presumably too weak and too stupid to handle the bigger machinations at work. Ever still a pawn in someone else's game. It sickened me. It infuriated me. I was offended that my decisions were being made for me, that it was just assumed that this would be the life I wanted. _Get me back to her_. I wondered if it ever occurred to any of the romance-blinded saps in the Capitol that maybe that ship sailed ages ago. I'm not the same person I was then.

Sterling, ever the calm, poised lady of polite society, rose from her seat with her usual serene grace, turning on me and fixing me with a sincere, practical expression. "So you'd prefer to just be a hooker forever, then?" she'd asked.

"Oh, _fuck you_ ," I spat. She only frowned at me impatiently. A sinking feeling twisted my insides as another thought occurred to me, and I braced myself against the bar that separated her sitting room from the kitchen, dragging my eyes back up to meet hers. "And us?" I asked, my voice softer this time. "Was any of it real?"

Her serene demeanor flickered with what might have been passion, and she began to lunge toward me, to close the distance between us, but rethought the movement halfway through and abandoned it, stopping abruptly in mid-step. "All of it," she whispered.

I huffed out an ironic laugh and took a fresh glass from the cabinet so that I could pour myself another drink. I'd initially reached for the gin out of habit, but my hand stopped just before it reached the bottle, and I frowned and petulantly picked another bottle instead. Scotch. I hate scotch. But I wouldn't give her the satisfaction of being right all the time.

 _Not all of it._

Of course I'd had this conversation before, on the train back to Twelve after our initial Games, when I'd found out that Katniss was being coached, that a lot of how she acted in the arena was just a strategy to keep us alive. But apparently, _not all of it_. I don't doubt that whatever Sterling and Katniss may have ever felt for me was genuine, but it doesn't excuse the fact that both of them were initially only inspired by the need for self-preservation. I was just an accident. A distraction. A by-product of a bigger agenda.

I contemplated my glass, hating the peaty smell and taste, but braving it nonetheless because all I really wanted to do was get hammered. "Am I to assume that Crispin is in on it as well?" I mumbled, my voice muffled by the glass.

I took by her silence that it was a resounding _yes_.

She took a measured breath and exhaled slowly, and finally she closed the distance between us so that the only thing separating us was the bar. "You can't tell me you feel absolutely nothing for her," she whispered.

I clenched my jaw and said nothing. The truth is, I don't know what I feel, but in that moment, all I felt was pissed off. The biggest mistake anyone ever made was underestimating me. There's a handful of corpses to attest to that.

After a prolonged silence, Sterling gave an impatient sigh and said with a note of finality, "Try to remember."

It wasn't an encouragement, or even a plea. It was a command. As if she knew me and my emotions better than I do. As if I'll come to the conclusion she already had sorted out for me. I slammed the glass down on the counter after draining the contents and headed for the door.

"Look, Sterling...you've been very generous. But I can't do this. I..." I trailed off, unsure if I wanted to be scathing, apologetic, or neutral. Then it occurred to me that I had nothing left to say, so I just left it at that and turned to leave.

"Peeta." Her voice was soft, but there was a conviction to her tone that gave me pause, my hand freezing on the doorknob. "You just remember who the enemy is."

Not wanting to give her the satisfaction of my surprise, of my recognition of Haymitch's advice, I left without so much as a glance back. A very small part of me wanted her to come after me, but she didn't. And I came home to an empty, spacious house that remains a little too cold for comfort, with nothing but the hallucinations of the people I killed to haunt me. The girl from District 8. Foxface. Crispin's father. Mitchell, my own squadmate from when we advanced on the Capitol. And then others make an appearance. Finnick. Mags. My brothers. My father. People I didn't _exactly_ kill, but I might as well have.

And then, finally, my mother.

And she's just as much of a cunt as always. I fix bleary eyes on her, sitting in the chair in the corner, sneering at me as she seethes insults at me, reminding me of how I was never wanted, that when I was born she nearly abandoned me in the mines. That the only thing that kept her from doing it was my father's intervention, that he would throw her out on the streets if she did. I only laughed. Of course. Only ever committed to being my mother under the threat of homelessness, because fuck knows the bitch didn't have any marketable skills to survive without a husband. I let the laughter turn into hysterics and she bursts into flames, disintegrating back into emptiness. I'm disappointed that the hallucination doesn't scream as she must have when she was burned alive.

And then Katniss is there, but she isn't the mutt that's haunted my nightmares, or even the impulsive, steadfast young woman who volunteered for her sister at the reaping. She's the fragile, starving girl who collapsed in the rain under my apple tree, trembling and defeated, all sunken cheeks and hollow eyes that burn into me, pleading, accusing. No, not accusing. Surrendering. _I'll die right here, thank you_ , they say. Is there a twinge where my heart should be? I reach shaking fingers out to her, but then she bursts into flame as well, before I can even throw the loaves of bread to her.

I don't notice the passage of time, or the colors of the changing sky outside my windows. I don't really take notice of anything until long-nailed fingers urgently grasp my face, and Portia's frantic expression comes into view. Her voice sounds strange as she says my name, as though she's calling at me from the end of a very long tunnel. I try to respond to her but nothing happens, because she keeps urgently shouting my name before her fingers go to my wrist, looking for the reassurance of a pulse. Suddenly there's a tightening in my chest and stomach, the rush of saliva at the back of my mouth, and Portia must recognize the signs of what's about to happen because she expertly helps me onto my side so that I don't choke on my own vomit. Whatever comes up looks like tar, but she doesn't recoil or seem disgusted at all. She merely rubs my back and then helps me into the bathroom, where she ensures I'll be fine on my own for a minute, then leaves me to clean up, closing the door behind her.

I stand under the warm water in the shower for what must be an hour, accidentally selecting a rose-scented cycle in my post-narcotic haze and laughing wryly at the memories it brings back. The nervous innocence of my humorous exchanges with Caesar back then seem almost obscene to me now. I've seen him around at social events and parties, general press gatherings where he inevitably has to make an appearance. He has the decency to never meet my eyes, his gaze always sliding demurely to the floor any time he accidentally looks in my direction. Gone is our witty camaraderie that so easily won the admiration and mirth of the Capitol's residents. I would have made myself as unlikable as possible if I'd known where my charm would have landed me in the long run. Now I'm just a junkie with an attitude problem. I bet my admirers in the Capitol would have loved this version of me a lot more.

Portia tentatively calls my name as she reenters and I shut the water off, stepping out of the shower and accepting the towel she hands me. I can tell she's trying her best not to fix me with a tragic expression, and for the first time in...ever, probably, I'm a little embarrassed. I avert my eyes, hating myself too much to meet her gaze, even though there's nothing judgmental or accusatory about the way she's looking at me. I say nothing when she hands me a neatly folded change of clothes, and for a moment, it's just our usual routine of her dressing me in something stylish and flattering, readying me for a client or a public appearance.

I emerge from the bathroom and see that she's done an excellent job of cleaning up, the floors immaculately scrubbed clean and no sign of the needle I'd used to shoot up. There's no telling what she did with the vial of narcotic, but I'm not sure I'd be too disappointed if she disposed of it. It's probably an unrealistic goal at this point, but I'd do anything I can to avoid tempting overdose again.

"Peeta." Her voice is grave.

I keep my back to her, pressing my forehead against the glass of my panoramic windows and trying to keep my eyes locked on one stationary point in the skyline, because the world is still spinning and it's screwing with my equilibrium so much that I might just have to vomit again. She says my name a second time and there's a seriousness in it, a tone of chiding protectiveness that my father always used when addressing me and my brothers whenever we did something incredibly stupid, causing me to finally turn around to face her. Her eyes lock on mine, and there's a subtle flare of anger behind her concern that immediately causes me to look away again.

"You could have died, Peeta."

Would that have really been so bad, then? All things considered, it probably would have been the better option for me. It would have been an easy way out. But then I think of everything I endured to get here, all of the things I already survived, and to be taken out by irresponsible recreational drug use seems a little insulting, now that I think about it. "Yeah, I guess you're right. I was supposed to go out being the hero. Seems like a bit of a waste, doesn't it?" I say.

She tenses and her arm rears back a little as she seems to deliberate on taking a step toward me, and I have no doubt that she's probably suppressing the sudden urge to slap me. She catches herself in an instant though, and her hand falls limp at her side as she frowns at me. "Well if you're done making bad decisions for the moment, I'll be going. Sterling needs me to organize her wardrobe for her new set and I'm already late. And call what little friends you have left, they're worried sick about you. No one's heard from you in days."

This is a shock. How long did I lay on my floor in a hallucinogenic stupor? I'm afraid to look at the date on the holographic clock above my mantelpiece. I have no doubt it's going to tell me something I don't want to know. Portia rolls her eyes at my obvious surprise and whips around, heading swiftly for the door. I don't want her to leave. I take a step toward her, but she's already wrenching the door open, and I can see that she's so furious that her hands are shaking.

She pauses just inside the door and turns back to me, her eyes flashing with impatience. " _Don't do anything stupid_ ," she says, spitting out the words with considerable vitriol, then slams the door behind her with such force that the wall decorations rattle from the disturbance.

All I can do is stare after her in shock. That was unexpected. Ever since my memories were hijacked, everyone has been patient and nurturing to the point of condescension. I'd begun to hate the simpering empathy I got from everyone, wondering if it was genuine, if anyone would have ever given a fuck about me at all if I wasn't some charity case. It suddenly became very easy for everyone to feel sorry for me, and no matter how cruel or abrasive I got, everyone was, for the most part, tolerant of me at the very least. How I came to hate everyone, so sickened I was at their patronizing doting. This is the first time anyone has really shown me impatience, at least aside from Katniss. I think I needed this. I needed someone to get angry with me. It's the first time in a while that I actually feel like I'm being treated like a normal adult.

I go to the door and swing it open, peering out in search of Portia, but she's already gone.

My legs suddenly give out under me, and I sink down to the floor in my doorway. How hard have I tried to get back to myself, really? The truth is, I haven't. I've intentionally avoided it, out of fear. My rehabilitation - if it could really be called that, as lost as the medics in Thirteen were on how to handle my situation - wasn't all that successful and seemingly made a lot of things worse, so I accepted that the new version of myself was here to stay. I've come to like the mutt version of me. He protects me emotionally, but it's very clear that he will almost certainly get me killed. Soon. I don't know how possible it is to return to the old me. I have different memories, I'm motivated by different things, I find enjoyment in different activities now. Attempting to invoke memories of Katniss only ever leaves me feeling confused and disoriented and a little frustrated. I can't even think about being the person I used to be without a small feeling of revulsion and distaste. I'd only be faking it, going through the motions. But the only alternative is dying a tragic death, which would give Snow yet another small victory.

I can't let him have that satisfaction.

* * *

I stand in the doorway at the back of the empty theater, watching their rehearsal in silence. No one's spotted me in the darkened recesses of the auditorium yet, and it gives me time to sort out my thoughts, prepare myself for what I might say. My last encounter with Sterling was less than tactful, and I'm not sure if I'm embarrassed about my behavior or still a little angry. I'm not even sure if human contact is something I really want right now, but the alternative is being alone, and I don't think I want that either. Lurking in the shadows while everyone is blinded by stage lighting and some distance away, unlikely to notice me, seems to be a happy medium. Without their masks, I immediately spot Crispin among the dancers, his dark hair whipping about his face with each precise movement. Where he's usually bleak and wilted, he seems to come to life onstage, as if every bit of emotion he's ever felt is expressed solely through dance. He's captivating, really, and I feel a small smile tug at my lips as I watch.

My eyes slide to stage right, where Sterling sorts out a wardrobe malfunction, exposing a tantalizing glimpse of the curving side of her breast as Portia comes over to rearrange the garment and make some alterations. Portia mutters something I don't hear, eliciting a harmonious laugh from Sterling. It's as if they've known one another for years - and for all I know, they have. There's no telling how long Cinna and Portia knew each other, and if Cinna was Sterling's stylist, there's no doubt she and Portia had already been acquainted. It makes me wonder if Cinna and Portia had been part of the rebellion long before Katniss and I ever challenged the rules of the Games.

I feel like I might just be content enough to watch the rehearsal from a distance indefinitely until I catch Crispin falter in one of his steps, seemingly tiring too easily and going back into his wilted state as he stumbles out of the choreography to a reassuring shoulder pat from a couple of his dance mates. I start forward, taking one step down the aisle but pausing as Sterling crosses the stage to him. I can see her sympathetic expression from here, and she mutters something to him as she smooths her hand along his shoulder, and he looks down at his feet, but then squares his shoulders and shakes his head. A moment passes, and his head drops as he rests his forehead in his hand, and I don't even have time to think about what I'm doing before I'm marching down the aisle and leaping up to the stage to pull him into my embrace.

Of course, I know exactly what's troubling him. He's found out about his father by now. Regardless of how horrible their relationship might have been, something like that would unquestionably cause a significant amount of emotional trauma. And whatever he's going through, I'm the main cause of it. Sterling and the other dancers politely step away, and Sterling quietly calls for everyone to take a break. For a long moment, it's just me embracing Crispin as he hides in my chest, moved beyond tears at this point. I don't say anything, because even if trite reassurances would have been effective, they'd be disingenuous and patronizing considering my part in all of it. For a fleeting moment, I deliberate on telling him everything, but I stop myself because I don't know what I'd do if he ended up hating me forever. That's really not something I can take right now.

He pulls out of my embrace and brings his hands up to my face, searching my eyes and then frowning. That's when I notice the fresh cuts latticed across his forearms - not deep enough to scar permanently, but certainly in need of attention, or at least bandages. I catch his wrist in my hand and turn his forearm upward, running my thumb along the side of one particularly nasty laceration before fixing him with a concerned glare.

"You're cutting again?" I say softly. I know he can't control these impulses, but he worries me.

"And you recently had a brush with overdose," he says, matching my tone as he narrows his eyes, his thumb coming up to trace what I know is a purplish shadow underneath my eye.

I can't do anything but look down at the floor and huff out a silent laugh.

Crispin sighs, fixing me with a tragic expression as his thumb rubs my cheekbone. "You're such a fucking beautiful disaster, Peeta," he whispers. He seems about to say something else, but his eyes dart to just over my shoulder, and I know Sterling is behind me.

I turn around, finally meeting her eyes. "The butcher's daughter and the baker's son. What a pair we make," is all I can think to say to her on the spot. Is my tone bitter? Hard to tell. I'm immediately chiding myself for speaking so freely, when there's no way of knowing who might be listening.

Sterling sees the sudden alarm in my eyes and waves it off. "You have every right to be angry," she says, her eyes serenely scanning the area behind me, then settling back on me. "...there's tea in the green room."

I recognize this as code for _Somewhere we won't be heard_. She's so smoothly discreet, always able to pull off evasiveness without seeming suspicious or shifty. Like she's been doing this for a decade. I suddenly realize that no matter how angry I might be with her, I'm certainly glad she's on my side. I've not once seen her lose her cool. Never seen her give any hint of a tell when it comes to her deception of the Capitol. Never faltered in her cover. She's found a way to beat the Capitol at their own game, using their own tactic of entertainment as a diversion against them.

I silently follow her and Crispin into an antechamber adjacent to the auditorium, where there actually is tea. Ever on top of how I take my beverages, she knows not to add sugar. I don't realize how cold I am until she's pressing the warm cup into my hands, and for some reason, this warmth brings with it a flood of emotion that causes me to sink down into one of the many plush chairs situated around the room.

 _You're a painter. You're a baker. You like to sleep with the windows open. You never take sugar in your tea. And you always double-knot your shoelaces._

Only one of those things is true anymore.

"I overreacted the last time we spoke," I say after a long silence. I'm more or less confessing to my teacup because I'm still having a hard time meeting Sterling's eyes.

There's a short pause, then: "Would you like to join the rebellion now, then?" She doesn't sound threatening or demanding. She's just as neutral and practical as always.

I huff out a genuinely amused laugh. No reassurance of _No, it wasn't an overreaction_ , or _It's okay, I understand_. Because those would have been platitudes. They would have been condescending and untrue. And I kind of love her for not saying them. This is just Sterling - shrewd, blunt, stoic, goal-driven Sterling, and this is what finally gives me the fortitude to tear my eyes from my teacup and look up at her. She's just as assertive and intense as ever, but in an oddly nonthreatening way.

"You're giving me a choice?" I ask.

She nods once. "You are, of course, allowed to say no."

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, turning the option over in my head. I'm fucked up. Indefinitely. I can't even imagine what I'd do with myself if by some miracle I come out the other end of this thing alive. But Snow needs to pay for his crimes, and the vengeful monster in me wants to be directly responsible for that.

"Just tell me what to do."

She doesn't smile. Doesn't even nod. She only cocks her head to one side and says, "How do you feel about body mods?"

* * *

The parlor is at the end of a long street lined with various boutiques and novelty shops. All of them have elaborately decorated storefronts, but this one is more vibrant, its glowing signs casting a blue haze over the darkened street in the moonless night. Of all the shops, it's the only one still open at this hour. The inside smells sterile, not unlike a hospital, but is a little more welcoming, with the scent of incense lingering somewhere beneath the smell of antiseptic. I'm met with a slightly unnerving buzzing sound, and it doesn't take me long to pinpoint the source, which is a pen-like machine being used to sketch an image into the skin of a woman reclining in the chair nearest to us. I stand motionless, fascinated at the process. I'd never really given Capitol cosmetic enhancements much thought - in Twelve, it always seemed so impractical and frivolous, that someone would decorate their skin this way. But now that I see how it's done, it becomes very clear to me that there had to be people whose job it was to apply those enhancements - artists. They're _artists_. Like me.

...Like I used to be.

I'm transfixed by the artist now, his head bent low over the woman as he etches vibrant colors into her skin, his gloved hand so precise as it makes a bold, flawless line, the woman flinching a little under the needle, but shaking her head when he asks if she needs to take a break for a minute. I'm fascinated at the concept of an actual _person_ being my canvas. I could do this. It would be a marvelous challenge, going from my two-dimensional canvases to the contours of a human body.

"...allowed to say no."

Sterling's voice breaks into my trance, and I shake my head, still a little dazed. "No. I want one," I say distantly, unable to tear my eyes from the artist and his canvas.

Another artist approaches us and warmly greets Sterling, and it's clear they know each other very well. We're led all the way to the back, into a room that's fairly hidden from view, but just as immaculate and sterile as the rest of the shop. The room is shrouded in a dark, purplish glow, and I take a seat in the chair provided.

"It's a UV tattoo - we call it quinine ink, colloquially," Sterling explains. "It's a mockingjay, of course, but will only be visible under a black light, so you'll be in no danger of discovery. It's a discreet way of being able to identify one another here in the Capitol - just be careful of which clubs you enter, and keep it covered if you're unsure it's safe. They're all applied just beneath the left collarbone, so it shouldn't be difficult. It doesn't hurt much, and should heal quickly."

"I'm not concerned about the pain," I say dismissively. Honestly, I've had much, much worse.

And it really isn't that bad. There's a marginal amount of discomfort, but it's nothing compared to what I've already experienced. Before the artist is even finished, I'm already considering getting more. But I don't want another UV tattoo - I want something everyone can see. I want to bear the vibrant colors I saw being tattooed on that woman, the intricate designs the artists themselves wear with pride. I book another appointment with the artist before we leave, and for the first time in months, I feel inspired to draw again. I have so many ideas for my next tattoo bouncing around in my head that I wish I had pencils and parchment so I could sketch them right now.

But then Sterling's driver is taking us to an area of the city I've never been, a darkened corner of the Capitol that's notably dilapidated with its archaic, brick-and-mortar warehouses that are too dull and out-of-place to belong here, in a city that prides itself on luxury and excess. The street is deserted and seemingly forgotten, some of the buildings having fallen into disrepair, like they were abandoned about a century ago. If I didn't trust Sterling - or at least Crispin, who reassuringly squeezes my hand as I tense next to him - I would think I was being led into a trap.

The car turns down an alleyway and stops in front of a recessed stairwell , which is cordoned off at the street level by a row of stanchions and velvet rope, a dim red light providing the only illumination from above. Surprisingly, there's a line of people extending along the wall, waiting to get in. Sterling bypasses the line, leading us straight up to a finely-dressed gentleman wearing an earpiece at the top of the stairs who nods once to her and pulls the velvet rope aside, then leads us down the stairs to open the door for us. To my surprise, it opens not to a basement, but to a nightclub - black lights everywhere, music with a heavy, synthetic beat reverberating off the walls, corseted cocktail waitresses stalking through the club, holding trays loaded with glowing beverages. Beautiful women in glowing white outfits and knee-high boots dance on raised platforms throughout the room, moving hypnotically to the music, and it takes a small nudge from Crispin in the small of my back to return my attention to where I'm going.

I turn my attention back to Sterling, who is walking slightly ahead of us, and I nearly stumble over someone else's feet when I see her back. She's wearing a revealing, low-backed blouse, and in this lighting, I can see that she's covered from shoulder blades to waist in intricate UV tattoos - galloping horses, a stallion rearing up on its hind legs, a bull pawing at the ground, its head aggressively lowered. A nod to her home district. How many times have I seen her naked, having thought I'd seen all there was to see of her? I wonder if she sat for all of it at once, or acquired it little by little over time. It glows just like tonic water under a black light. _Quinine ink_. Of course.

Sterling navigates through the crowd with the ease of practice, but several people occasionally stop her on the way to shake her hand, praise her for her impeccable taste, thank her for opening such an establishment. _Of course she owns the place_. I inspect the people around me. They seem like typical Capitol residents, with their outrageous hair and clothes, but these people are a little different. The styles here don't seem as random and flamboyant as most Capitol fashions. These adornments all seem to serve some kind of purpose. A lot of these people are wearing combat boots and belts made of ammunition. I see a woman wearing flash goggles on her head. Others are wearing gas masks. Like they've made a fashion statement out of preparing for war. Almost everyone's skin is inked in colorful, intricate designs. Many of the men are sporting mohawks or dreadlocks, and I'm just beginning to contemplate what I'd look like with an undercut when Sterling drags us away from the chaos of the dance floor and through a nondescript door at the back of the club. The glow of her tattoos disappears as the door shuts out the luminescence of the black lights behind us, as if a light has suddenly been switched off within her.

She leads us down a dark, narrow hallway and around a corner where another sharply-dressed gentleman wearing an earpiece guards the door, and my eyes immediately fall to the gun holstered at his hip. He produces a penlight with a glowing purple lens and sweeps the light over Sterling's collarbone as she pulls the strap of her blouse aside, revealing her own mockingjay tattoo. Crispin steps forward and pulls his collar aside as well, then I follow suit, and the guard clicks the penlight off and returns it to his pocket, wordlessly permitting us inside and closing the door firmly behind us.

I have to blink several times to allow my eyes to adjust to the bright light, and we're in a control room of sorts, with a large table in the center that bears some sort of holographic screen. Several people stand around the table, periodically swiping at the screen, and then there are others watching feeds from monitors on the far side of the room as they speak into small communications devices in rapid, hushed voices. But what really draws my attention are the brightly-lit shelves of neatly-displayed weapons lining the room. There are the standard assault rifles we used in training in Thirteen, but there are many, many others as well. Easily concealed pistols, shotguns, grenades, knives and throwing stars, basically every weapon imaginable.

There's body armor as well, and it's sleek enough to be concealed beneath regular clothing. I inspect a dummy that shimmers like a mirage when I look at it from a certain angle, and it takes me a moment to figure out that it's protected by a personalized shield of the same technology that creates the force fields in the arenas and on the roof of the Training Center. The whole thing is controlled by a small black box clipped at its waist, designed to deflect any kind of weapon or projectile aimed at the person wearing it.

"What is this place?" I whisper.

"The center of the revolution here in the Capitol," Sterling answers. "We've been preparing for...some time now."

"Don't you own the place? Why didn't the guard just let you in?"

"I own the _club_ that's a _cover_ for this place. And that can be anyone wearing my face. You can never be too careful."

I idly wander over to the weapons, noticing that some are more advanced even than the ones in Thirteen. Some of them appear to be directed-energy weapons, which I only recognize because I once overheard Beetee raving about the possibilities of the technology, which presumably didn't even exist yet.

"Do you know how to use any of these?" Sterling asks, keeping a steady gaze on me.

"Some," I say idly, running my fingers over the scope of what I recognize as the same straight-pull bolt-action rifle Mitchell used. I abruptly turn on my heel to face her. "Do _you_?"

"I'm proficient in all of them," she says.

Of course she is.

"Who are all these people?" I ask, surreptitiously looking around the room.

"The rebels of the Capitol. They've been organizing the uprising from the inside, working in tandem with District Thirteen." She looks down at the floor for a moment and sighs. "It's a lot emptier now, since the last attempt. ...A lot of covers were blown. We lost some good people."

"But where did they come from? Are they...did they come here from the districts, too?" I ask, dropping my voice.

"Some, but we lost most of them in the last battle. Most of what's left are native to the Capitol."

"And you trust them? What reason would they have to rebel? They've lived in luxury their whole lives."

A man about Sterling's age looks up from the holographic screen and meets my eyes, and he walks over and extends his hand, which I reluctantly take. "Some of us have more reason to rebel than you would think," he says, flashing a wry smile.

"He's a retired Gamemaker," Sterling explains, and he nods grimly.

"Retired? What made you quit?" I ask.

He sheepishly looks down for a moment, then back up at me. "Your first Games, actually," he says quietly. "When you two were trapped in that cave, and you almost died...a lot of us lost the appetite for our careers then, to be honest. None of us liked the idea of tearing you two apart. It just got worse as it went on. And when you both almost committed suicide...not a single one of us in that room would have followed the order had Seneca told us to kill you both. He trashed the room in those final moments, after you were both announced victors. It was...really frightening to watch. We saw a man spiral into insanity that day. There was a mass exodus of Gamemakers that year. Of course, we all had to go into hiding," he said, giving a small shrug and an ironic smile.

I don't say anything. We both heard so many vapid Capitolites rave at us about their experience watching our Games, and what a lot of them thought was encouraging and sentimental was actually really trivial to the point of being insulting, but we smiled through it and ate the food and drank the champagne and took pictures with them just to show how grateful we were for everyone's support. But to hear it from the perspective of an actual Gamemaker, someone who has presumably lived in privilege their whole life and has actively taken part in the slaughter of dozens of kids - it's sobering, to say the least. Especially when what inspired them to sacrifice their career is most likely a lost cause. I feel a little selfish just thinking about it, so I give a small, unconvincing smile and nod once. I'd say _Thanks_ , but I'm afraid it would come out sounding incredibly sarcastic and disingenuous, so I just pretend to appear too emotional to speak.

"Are these all retired Gamemakers, then?" I ask quietly, scrutinizing the people in the room a little more openly now.

She shakes her head. "Most of them were apprehended and killed."

She goes on to tell me who some of the people in the room used to be, before they were rebels. An engineer who designed the various arenas where dozens of children died. The technician that was part of the team that built them. A beautician who became too attached to her tributes and kept having to watch them die. An emergency medical practitioner whose job it was to put the victors back together once they got lifted out of the arena, who later comes over and apologizes for having to cut my leg off, that they really did everything they could to save it, but the damage was too great and Really, I'm so very, truly sorry and is the prosthetic working out to my liking?

It's like a punch in the gut, and I find myself needing desperately to sit down just to catch my breath. So many faceless people who played some part in my journey here today. Before, they were just concepts, but now they're real, individual people that have sacrificed their lives and careers for _me_ , some screwed up junkie whose biggest marketable skill is fucking people for money. I think I might throw up.

"So what are they doing right now?" I ask, not really caring about the answer, but trying to find anything that will preoccupy my mind.

"Making final arrangements for Thirteen's next assault on the Capitol. They're closing the deal right now, smoothing out plans."

This takes me by surprise. "So soon?" I ask, somehow maintaining a marginally stoic demeanor. I try to calculate how much time has passed since the last attempt, but a flawed memory clouded by the haze of drugs has distorted my concept of time. But it's definitely been enough time for Thirteen to recover and organize another assault.

"The first in command of Thirteen's army will be here in a matter of days, perhaps with a small squad. Negotiations are being made with District Five to temporarily shut off power so that Snow's security will be vulnerable. They intend to infiltrate his mansion and capture him. I'm going to be there to open the blast doors of the bunker beneath the building for them, but...I'd like you to be there as well."

I stiffen, and I immediately turn back to the display of weapons so that I have an excuse to hide my expression. "Will Katniss be among them?" I ask, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

There's a slight pause, then, "I don't know."

I give a curt nod. "I'm not entirely sure that would be a wise idea."

"Fair enough."

I'm surprised that Sterling doesn't fight me on it. She merely continues with a detailed account of the plans for the assault on the Capitol, complete with schematics of the network of tunnels that run beneath the city, informing me that they intersect with the nightclub as well in case the rebels here need a swift, discreet exit. She even shows me the access point under the guise of a tour of the club, should I ever need to use it. I'm overwhelmed to the point of lethargy, and I wonder if it's only exacerbated by my need for a fix. I clench my fists open and closed several times, gauging how much control I have over my motor skills. Are these withdrawal tremors, or am I just emotionally compromised? I need a drink, but that would require surrounding myself with people, and I'm afraid if someone even slightly invades my space right now, I'll lose my cool and harm them. I'm really not too fond of doing that in one of Sterling's clubs again.

"Sterling, can we just go home?" I ask.

I know she hears the desperation in my voice because she obliges without question, saying hasty goodbyes to a few of the people in the room. Just before we leave, she grabs one of the force field packs from the shelf by the dummy and hands it to me, wrapping my fingers tightly around it as she informs me that one can never be too careful. She gives me a quick tutorial on how to use it, and makes me promise to keep it on me at all times.

We're back at her townhouse within the hour, and there's something oddly therapeutic about being back. It's a safe place. It's a place where I won't be judged, or used, or monitored. I immediately melt into Sterling's embrace once we're inside, and I'm mumbling apologies to her that eventually become incoherent rambling. Crispin is at my elbow as well, muttering reassurances to me and when I pull out of Sterling's embrace, he's pressing a small business card into my palm.

"'Dr. Aurelius?'" I ask, reading the name on the card. "What is this?"

"He's...helped me cope. He's also helped me control my impulses to self-harm, and he's been pretty effective. I mean...I have relapses, but I used to cut a lot more before I started talking to him. He helps addicts as well. I think you should talk to him."

"A head doctor?" I say, the skepticism apparent in my tone. I've dealt with head doctors. The ones in Thirteen were nothing short of quacks. They only made my situation worse, and they were remarkably obvious about how little they knew about what they were doing.

"He's had more experience and better resources at his disposal than anyone you might have talked to in Twelve or Thirteen," he says, seemingly reading my mind.

Be that as it may, he'll never be able to make my problems disappear, and he'll certainly never have the authority to tell Snow's doctors to stop keeping me addicted in the first place. "Yeah, sure. I'll go see him when I have time."

"You'll see him _tomorrow_ ," he says firmly. "Peeta, promise me."

There's such burning conviction in his eyes that I can't say no, and I nod in agreement. "...Okay. Yeah, I will, I promise."

"You can trust him," Sterling chimes in behind me, and at this point I realize I have no choice.

At any rate, they turn out to be right. Dr. Aurelius is a little merciless with his assault of tactics designed to keep the patient talking, but he surprisingly makes it easier for me to sort out my thoughts. I'm grateful that he doesn't question me about Katniss too soon or too often, and when he does, he eases me into it, starting out with trivial things that seemingly have nothing to do with my past relationship with her. It becomes clear to me that he's using minor things to jog my memory, and always ensuring that they're safe memories, but then the subject always moves on to something else like my father's bakery, our pig out back, my tendency to always tune out in school and sketch instead. Occasionally we talk about the more difficult subjects, like my addiction. My impotence. It's a struggle at first, but after realizing that he must deal with tons of other clients that have the same problems and that it's nothing new to him, it becomes less humiliating and more therapeutic. I continue to see the clients Snow assigns to me, and if I have a particularly vile one, my session with Aurelius at least diminishes my desire to punch things by at least a small amount.

I don't tell him about the clients I'm assigned to kill. I don't tell him about the extracurricular kills I make just to spite Snow.

Like when I see the name on my schedule and for the first time in a while, I feel a whisper of excitement in my chest. _Romulus Thread_. So he did make it out of Twelve, after all. He must have been reassigned to the Capitol after the destruction of Twelve, but one thing is certain - he's been delivered right to me, and I need to let out some aggression.

He sneers at me when he opens the door, and I can already see the calculating glint in the sadistic prick's eyes as he contemplates how he's going to harm me. I only return the sneer, coolly stepping inside and slowly removing my blazer with the confidence of the seducer I am. He's so stunned by my compliance and congeniality that he doesn't hesitate to remove his shirt when I ask him, and he's too caught up in the moment to resist when I restrain him on his knees, his wrists tied above his head to the bedpost. It isn't until I'm pulling his trademark whip from its resting place on the back of a chair and wrapping it around my fist that he begins to struggle against his restraints and shout obscenities at me that eventually turn into pathetic pleas for mercy.

Every blow is more gratifying than the last, and when he passes out after twenty lashes, I wake him back up so he can enjoy the rest. My arm begins to tire and eventually grow numb from the exertion, but I'm pretty dexterous, so I switch to the other hand. He stops breathing at around fifty, and by that time, his back resembles one of the slabs of meat Rooba used to sell in her shop back in Twelve. I check for a pulse, and when there is none, I untie him and haul his limp body to the closet, where I sweep the clothes to the side and test the durability of the rod. Then I wrap the whip around Thread's neck and secure the other end of it to the rod, and unzip his pants and shove his hand down the front so that it will look like a poor accident that occurred during a harmless session of autoerotic asphyxiation. It seems a fitting end that is perhaps not too uncommon among the deviants of the Capitol.

Of course, there's still the lacerations on his back that will have to be explained, and there's no way anyone will ever believe it was a self-inflicted accident, but that's my intention. A direct insult to Snow. I want it to be obvious who did this. A humiliating, ironic gesture meant to threaten. Or perhaps it's more of a dare. A part of me hopes Snow tries to retaliate, because now I'm just looking for a fight.

I go into the bathroom to wash the blood from my hands, and I gasp when I look up and catch my reflection in the mirror, then give a small laugh. Blood spatters my face and clothes so that I'm drenched, and even my hair is darkened with red. I run two fingers along my cheek, moistening my fingertips with blood, and I blankly stare down at the red stains before slowly extending my fingers to the mirror to touch my reflection. In a half-daze, as if compelled by someone not me, I begin to paint a design with the blood, and only when I'm finished do I step back and allow my eyes to focus on the image. It's a flower of some kind.

It's a dandelion.

* * *

I think I might spiral into definite madness if not for my sessions with Dr. Aurelius, the calming nature of Sterling's books, and my appointments with Sterling's tattoo artist. The marginal pain from the process turns out to be an effective way of letting out pent-up stress. The pain helps me focus...like bloodied wrists in steel handcuffs. It brings me back to myself when I feel myself slipping. I gradually begin to understand why Crispin cuts himself. I've become a little addicted to being inked, and my forearm begins to bear a wealth of color.

I start spending more time at Sterling's place than at mine, waiting for the moment of reckoning when Thirteen's rebels arrive. The time frame is unclear, but we'll definitely know when the power goes out that they'll soon be on their way. Sometimes I'm a nervous wreck thinking about it, and at others, I'm oddly detached.

Right now, I'm just trying to find something among Sterling's collection that I haven't read yet.

She eventually comes up beside me and her eyes fall to the black leather-bound book on the table next to me, and she gingerly picks it up and begins rifling through its too-fine pages. "What made you choose this one?" she asks.

"I was curious about the symbol on the front," I say. "I wanted to know what it meant."

The book had no other words on the outside, its only decoration being a large, vertically asymmetrical cross embossed in gold on the cover, and something about its vague nature compelled me to find out more. The prose was strange but still somewhat intelligible, and I'd rifled through it, skimming through parts at sporadic intervals before ultimately abandoning it.

"Would you mind telling me what you thought about it?"

I slowly put down the historical text I'm currently reading and think for a moment. "I appreciated the moral allegory. There were some clever fables. Ultimately though...it made me a little uncomfortable."

"Care to tell me why?"

"I don't know, I guess...the beginning was a little unnerving. I don't like any construct that implies that the acquisition of knowledge is the most grievous error a human can make. The lesson of humility and modesty is especially offensive when it becomes obvious that it's just a pretense for those in power to exploit those who aren't. Using scare tactics and incentives to keep a population under control...it's a little too similar to...to the way the Capitol does things, I guess."

She nods a little and then closes the book, going to the empty gap on the shelf and sliding it back in its spot. "You know, this book used to rule nations," she says quietly, staring at it with what looks like apprehension. "In the wrong hands, it can have...devastating effects. It's no more a book than it is a powerful weapon."

I puzzle at the assertion, turning it over in my head. From what little I read, I can see that being possible. "Then why doesn't Snow use it against us?" I ask.

She suddenly jerks her head around to look at me, her eyes burning with curiosity. "That's the question, isn't it? He could, if he wanted to. He could easily rule Panem with little resistance if he exploited it. And he's not the type of person to be above doing it, either. ...But he _is_ a narcissist."

Then it dawns on me, and I make a small sigh of revelation. "He doesn't want anyone thinking there might be something bigger than him," I say flatly.

She nods. "It's for the best that it was lost to history, honestly. That book caused more wars than peace."

She leans in and kisses me on the forehead, and leaves for the club.

I wait up for her in the early hours of the morning, but she doesn't return. Eventually I fall into an alcohol-induced sleep, waking in the afternoon to a still-empty bed. I'm on my way to the club when I see the platform that's been erected in the middle of the City Circle, a group of Peacekeepers with their guns at the ready as they stand around a kneeling, hooded figure. A fair amount of people have gathered around to watch the spectacle, and there's a collective gasp from the crowd as the hood is lifted from the detainee's head and they all recognize the famous scarlet hair that falls around her face.

Even from this distance, I see the daring, accusatory ferocity in her eyes as she keeps her chin lowered but raises her gaze to her executioner. Her wrists are bound behind her back, but she doesn't struggle against her restraints. She doesn't cry, or scream, or beg, or question him. She only stares up in silent acceptance as he lifts his gun to her head and pulls the trigger.

" _Sterling, no!_ " I scream, lunging forward through the crowd, but there's a vise-grip on my elbow that stops me, and I whip around to Crispin's frightened, warning expression just as chaos ensues in the crowd.

"Peeta, we've got to go," he hisses, and there are tears in his eyes as he begins to drag me away. I turn around, lingering on the spot as tears spring to my own eyes, unable to tear my gaze away from Sterling's body slumped on the platform, a hole in her forehead oozing blood as her eyes stare lifelessly upward.

Crispin is so urgent and persistent that I let him lead me away, too dazed to really notice where we're going. We're in an alleyway somewhat isolated from the chaos when I finally have to stop, and I brace myself against the wall of a building as I vomit next to a trash bin. I stagger away with every intention to keep going, but my legs give out beneath me and I collapse to the ground, and Crispin is right there next to me, his arms around me as we sob in one another's embrace.

"How did they find out?" I stammer, not even sure I'm coherent. "She was so careful. It happened so fast - "

"I know," Crispin says, pulling me up to my feet and tugging at my arm. "But we've got to go. It's dangerous for us here."

"Where are we gonna go, Cris?!" I say, yanking my arm from his grip. "There's nowhere we can go now without them finding us!"

"No one's going to look for us for a while," he assures me. "The Capitol loved her. There will be riots in the street. I think the Peacekeepers have too much on their hands right now to worry about us quite yet."

I bring my hand to my mouth, fighting off another wave of nausea. "She's gone," I whisper.

"I know," he says quietly. "But we have to hide somewhere _now_. Peeta, if you're apprehended now, then everything she did will be for nothing."

It isn't long after the sun sets that the brightly-lit streets and buildings go dark, block by block throughout the city. Crispin and I cling to one another in the dark, staggering through alleyways and staying close to one another to fend off the cold when a horrific thought occurs to me - there's no one to open those blast doors for the rebels.

Crispin volunteers to do it, but I dissuade him from the idea. Too many things can go wrong, and I can't lose him, too. Somehow, even in the darkened streets, I manage to find the shop of Tigris, the catlike woman who hid me and what was left of my squad the last time Thirteen attempted a takeover of the Capitol. She agrees to keep Crispin hidden while the assault takes place, and I promise to come back for him if I survive. Our parting sentiments are tear-filled and rushed, and a flash of my last moment with Katniss hits me so hard that I nearly collapse to the ground.

 _Listen. Don't do anything foolish_.

Trembling but firm arms wrapped around my neck. My initial instinct to resist, but then something in me breaking free, causing me to reflexively return the embrace.

But it's Crispin in front of me and not Katniss, and the tears are still streaming silently down his face, and it's all I can do to not break into a sob. And I kiss him like I might never get the opportunity again. I reach into my pocket and pull out the force field pack that Sterling gave me, switch the little button over to 'Initialize,' just like she told me, then clip it to my belt at the back of my waist. I feel a vibration of static through my entire body, pulsing down my limbs as I feel it... _talking_ to me, configuring itself to my unique shape, and then I watch the mirage effect shimmer over me before going invisible again. I can still feel Crispin's body heat, still feel his touch against my skin when he reaches up to touch my face, and I wonder if the device truly can absorb and deflect damage as effectively as Sterling said. All I can do is hope for the best at this point.

It's fortunate that I know Snow's mansion so well. Every maintenance hallway, each service access door. I keep to the secluded hallways, ducking through the shadows as I struggle to remember the layout of the schematics Sterling had shown me, try to deduce the quickest path to the bunker. House staff and security personnel are frantically running about, trying to instill some kind of order in the uncertainty of the power loss. I slip unnoticed into the access shaft leading to the bunker in the midst of the confusion, and it's a sprint down a yellow-tinged tunnel lit by dim auxiliary lights to my destination. There must be a generator that powers the bunker separately, but there's no telling how long it will last.

I'm almost there when I cross an intersection where another tunnel branches off to the right, and that's when I see them - Snow, his war advisor, and two armed guards who are rushing up a stairwell to ground level. It occurs to me that Snow has no intention of holing up in that bunker - and why would he, because that's exactly where the rebels would expect him to be. He'd be delivering himself straight into their hands. In a moment of impulsiveness, I turn down the tunnel and sprint after them. One of the guards hears me and turns, lifting his gun toward me, and I don't even have time to duck before he's firing straight at my chest. I don't even feel the impact of the bullets, and there's only a pale blue shimmer as they're rendered powerless against the force field protecting my body. I halt for a short moment, and when I realize that the shield actually works, I merely give the guard a shrewd sneer and continue advancing on them. He fumbles with his weapon as he stares at me in confused horror, but the other guard is shouting at him that they need to go, and I hear the engine of a waiting car just above as they make their escape up the stairs leading out of the shaft. I throw my hand out to grab the ankle of one of them, yanking hard so that he comes tumbling down.

It's the war advisor, trembling and pleading with me in incoherent babbling, and Snow and his guards don't even attempt to save him. They only scramble out of the access shaft and into the waiting car, which speeds away.

"Fuck!" I shout, violently throwing my hands up in irritation, which causes the war advisor to cringe at my feet, shaking uncontrollably.

 _The war advisor_. I've got him. I've got leverage. Sniveling, shrill, jumpy war advisor. I give a hearty laugh and lean down to extend my hand to help him up, and he jumps at the gesture, making no move to accept. This annoys me, so I roughly grab him by the wrist, feeling it snap within my grip, then yank him to his feet. He merely falls back down, his legs are shaking so badly. I give an exasperated sigh and grab him by his injured wrist again, causing him to yelp in pain, and I drag him all the way down the tunnels to the bunker, where I sit him in a chair in front of a console of monitors that show various feeds of the network of tunnels leading here.

I face him and lean back against the console, my arms crossed over my chest as I glare down at him. "Where is he going?"

"I don't - I don't know," he stammers.

I sigh and roll my eyes, hitting him across the face with a closed fist. "Let's try again," I say, my voice clipped and annoyed. " _Where is he going?_ You can continue to make this difficult. I'm not above beating it out of you."

The rebels will be here in a few hours, and there's no way of contacting them. They won't know Snow isn't here. I need to have those blast doors open and know Snow's whereabouts by the time they get here. There's no telling how long the generator will last, and how long I'll have these video feeds at my disposal.

It's a long process, but the war advisor finally breaks. Honestly, I'd expected him to crack much sooner. He's bruised, bleeding profusely, and missing some fingernails by the time I'm done with him, but I get the information I need - another bunker hollowed out in the base of one of the surrounding mountains, complete with updated sketches of the quickest route there and the location of pods along the way.

Finally, I see movement in the grainy images on the monitors. The images are brightly colored in orange and pink against a blue and green background, and it occurs to me that the cameras must rely on thermal imaging. It's impossible to make out faces, but there's no doubt that these are Thirteen rebels. I see four vibrantly-colored figures running in the northwest sector, pausing occasionally to check their Holos, then continuing with the uncertain aimlessness of people who are unfamiliar with the territory. A glance at another monitor labeled _BLAST DOORS: EXTERIOR_ and I see a lone figure approaching the outside, followed in the distance by a group of what must be Peacekeepers running at a low crouch. I barely have time to react, and I grab an assault rifle from a weapons locker nearby, pointing it to the advisor's head.

"Open it," I command.

He doesn't hesitate to comply, and I'm sprinting to the parting doors with my rifle ready for whatever is waiting on the other side. I know for a fact that there are Peacekeepers in pursuit. There could also be mutts. I won't have much time to explain to the Thirteen commander what happened before even the bunker is too dangerous, and Snow's security is sent to smoke us out.

My body goes rigid when her face is revealed by the parting doors. A horizontal line of black greasepaint has been applied beneath each eye - _warpaint_ \- and her hair isn't braided, but is wild and free, with multiple smaller braids sporadically interwoven into it. I reflexively aim my rifle at her head, momentarily squinting my eyes shut as a flash of the fanged mutt from the recesses of my haunted memory lunges out at me. _Not real_. I try to separate the mutt from the soldier that stands in front of me, her own rifle raised to my head as we stare each other down. My eyes travel to the stripes on her sleeve - and I realize that Katniss is now their commander.

But this isn't a commander in front of me, not really.

 _This is a warrior_.


	10. Made for Action, Built for Speed

_.Katniss._

"You gonna shoot me?" he asks, and it almost sounds like a dare. His voice is low and cold, and his eyes are just as glacial.

"No," I say, but I don't sound entirely convinced of my own answer, I'm so thrown by that deadened look behind his gaze. "You gonna shoot _me_?"

He only hesitates for about a half second, but I catch it, nonetheless. "Not if I don't have to," he says.

There's a tense few seconds as we continue to stare each other down, our rifles pointed at each other, and I don't dare break his gaze. Finally, his eyes twitch as if he's suppressing the urge to blink, and his gaze shifts just a fraction to the right, to something over my shoulder in the distance, and the aim of his rifle goes with it.

" _Get the fuck down_ ," he hisses, and I have just enough time to dive through the blast doors and out of his sights before he's putting a bullet right between the eyes of a pursuing Peacekeeper at the far end of the tunnel.

Two more round the corner, and he takes them out in the exact same fashion, squarely placing holes in the center of their foreheads, tripping them up in mid-sprint so that they crumple to the ground, one after the other, with not even a second's pause between them. I stare down the tunnel in shock, my eyes shifting from him to the pile of Peacekeepers in the distance.

 _I'm not much of a shot anyway_.

It would seem that Peeta is just full of surprises today.

He whips around and swiftly steps over me as if I'm not even there, addressing a fragile, beaten man sitting at some sort of control panel in the center of the room. "Get these doors closed," Peeta commands. The mere sound of Peeta's voice causes the man to jump.

"I thought you said you weren't much of a shot," I say bitterly, pulling myself back to my feet.

He turns his head slightly, regarding me out of the corner of his eye for a short moment before coolly looking away again. "Murderer, traitor, mutt, prostitute. After all that, you'd think 'liar' would be too inconsequential to be worth a mention." There's something almost dismissive about his tone, as if he finds the whole ordeal to be something of a bore.

I stare at him in silence as he moves across the room. He's remarkably changed since the last time I saw him. I barely recognize this person. He's still as handsome as ever, but so very, very different. His hair has changed. He's grown modest sideburns. He's sharply dressed in glossy, tailored clothing - a fitted grey waistcoat and dark blue shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows, making the image of him carrying an assault rifle all the more uncharacteristic and odd. Most notably, his right forearm is covered in a sleeve of colorful ink that extends all the way down to the back of his hand and disappears up past his elbow and into his rolled up sleeve. He's the perfect balance of eccentric Capitol gentleman and District 13 rebel, and I'm so caught up in studying this apparent stranger that I almost forget my objective.

"Where is the St. Claire woman?" I ask, suddenly noticing the change in plans.

Perhaps I'm imagining it, but I think the frostiness in his eyes melts away just before they drop to the floor, and he gives a wordless, curt shake of his head. I let out a small gasp and immediately look away. I'm still unclear on the nature of his relationship with her, but there's an unmistakable glint of tears in his eyes. It would be tactless to question him further, so I don't.

"I lost my squad, too," is the safest thing I can think to say to him in the moment.

He glances at me out of the corner of his eye again, then back to the monitors in the center of the room. "They're still alive," he says.

"Wait, what?" I say, rushing over to the console. The rapid movement causes the beaten man seated in front of it to cringe.

Peeta leans over the man's shoulder and he actually lets out a yelp, as though he's afraid Peeta might strike him any moment. "Can you seal off certain routes in those tunnels?" Peeta asks him.

The man trembles and gives an awkward, spasmodic nod of his head.

"Good. Herd them toward this location on the grid," Peeta says, slapping a schematic down on the desk next to him and pointing. "... _Safely_ ," he adds through clenched teeth, and I don't miss the obvious threat in his tone.

He turns back to me and indicates toward the weapons lockers at the far side of the room. "You have five minutes to take what you need before we head out," he says. "And even that's probably risking it."

"Head out?" I ask defensively. "I came here to kill Sn-"

"Snow's not here," he says in a clipped tone. "He escaped with a couple of guards, but they know we're here. Or they know _I'm_ here, so by proxy, you and potentially your squad. We can't be here when his security team arrives, and there's not enough ammunition or weapons in this bunker to defend it. Your squad will be meeting us at an arsenal in the warehouse sector of the city. You can resupply there."

I'm so stunned by his cool assertiveness that I don't answer. Who is this person? This isn't the warm, kind boy from District Twelve I used to know. ...But this isn't the mutt version of him that tried to kill me, either. Not quite. This is some weird version in between, a hybrid of the two as if...as if they're working in concert to achieve a common goal. It slowly occurs to me that he's just as eager to kill Snow as I am...if not more.

"...If that's okay with you, Commander?" he asks, his eyes narrowed and his head tilted slightly to the side in mild impatience.

I blink a couple of times and nod. "Yes...yes, of course. ...How do we find Snow, then?"

"I know where he is. His intrepid war advisor here told me."

I jerk my head in the direction of the beaten man at the console, who is actively avoiding my eyes and working frantically to fulfill Peeta's orders. "War advisor? That's Snow's war advisor? Why is he answering to _you_ now?"

"Because I asked him to."

"You asked him to," I say doubtfully.

Peeta takes a deep breath and slightly rolls his eyes. "I tied him to a chair, and I asked him to. ...For five hours."

I stare at Peeta in disbelief for a few seconds, and he holds my gaze with an expression so neutral that he looks almost bored. I shift my gaze back to the war advisor, who bears multiple contusions on his face and has bandages wrapped around several of his fingertips. I then notice the faint smear of blood across Peeta's cheekbone and his slightly bloodied knuckles and I momentarily close my eyes, unable to accept that Peeta would be capable of something so barbaric.

"You...tortured him?" I ask.

"Okay," Peeta says impatiently, turning away with another roll of his eyes. "Let's not misuse the word 'torture' here. _I_ was tortured. This guy got off light. ...Why, is there a problem?" he asks, turning back to face me.

I suddenly feel very small under his scrutiny, and I quickly shake my head. "Not at the moment," I mumble. I guess when I think about it, the guy probably deserved it, and I can't much judge Peeta for his methods when I put one of my own squadmates in the hospital. I realize that I'm so bothered by the whole situation because right now, Peeta and I are probably more alike than we ever have been. I could have used this version of him on my squad the last time we tried to take the Capitol.

"Everdeen," he says firmly, fixing me with a stern glare and holding up five fingers. " _Five minutes_."

I hastily collect anything I can scavenge from the bunker and Peeta's soon emphasizing that we've got to go, _now_ , and it's all I can do to keep up as he's striding swiftly ahead of me through a different exit and down a series of unfamiliar tunnels that I'm almost certain I would have gotten lost in even with the assistance of my Holo. The path is surprisingly devoid of Peacekeepers and pods, and I remember that Snow's resources have been remarkably diminished. Peeta leads with a determined stride, as though he's walked these tunnels dozens of times before. He doesn't speak or show any shred of emotion, and admittedly, he makes me a little nervous. I don't know what I'd thought our reunion would be like after all these weeks, but I certainly expected it to be more momentous than this. Perhaps I expected more of his old self to shine through, but instead he's robotic and ruthless. Calculating. This man is a natural killer.

And I'd be lying if I said I didn't find this version of him just a _little_ bit exciting.

"How do you know the war advisor won't betray you and get my squad killed?" I ask.

"Because I'm all he's got left. Snow abandoned him. He has no motive for loyalty to the man who left him to the whims of a sociopath. If he fucks me, he knows I'll just kill him."

"And if he _doesn't_ fuck you?"

Peeta shrugs. "I was gonna kill him anyway."

I almost stop short, I'm so stunned by his dismissive attitude. I know Peeta's screwed up, but a sociopath? I get the distinct impression that he's killed more people since the last time I saw him. Should I fear for my life right now? I don't really have time to deliberate on it because he's stopped at the bottom of an access shaft and is climbing up the ladder to the street level, extending his hand when he gets to the top. I climb up after him and reluctantly take his hand.

It's the first we've touched in weeks - months, really. I give a shrill gasp as his hand envelops mine, and it's warm and strong and is there that same reassuring squeeze as when he shook my hand at that very first reaping, or am I imagining it? He effortlessly hoists me up to the street and immediately lets go, sharply looking in each direction to ensure that we're clear. I can still feel the lingering warmth of his grip around my hand, and I find myself longing for that touch again, but his hand has returned to his rifle and he's advancing down the street ahead of me, not even looking back to see if I'm keeping up.

"Keep the light on your rifle off while we're above ground," he says over his shoulder.

The streets are dark without the convenience of the city lights, but there's enough moon that we're not walking completely blind. I pick up my pace so that I'm walking astride with him, and for a moment, we're just two soldiers, walking in silence to our objective. I can still make out the darkened sleeve of ink covering Peeta's forearm, and I wish I had more light so that I could inspect the designs up close. I never thought he would be the type to bother with Capitol cosmetic enhancements, and I want desperately to know what might be important enough to this version of him that he'd get it permanently etched in his skin. I'm surreptitiously craning my neck to get a closer look when he abruptly stops, nearly causing me to trip over him.

"What the hell is that noise?" he says, dropping his voice to a whisper as he narrows his eyes and whips around to inspect the darkened street behind us.

"I don't hear anyth-"

I don't have time to finish before he's shouldering his rifle and clamping a hand over my mouth, effortlessly sweeping me into a shadowed corner behind an abandoned car. My first instinct is to struggle against him, but his arms are strong and powerful around me, so that I'm motionless against him. That's when I see it - a miniature hovercraft, about the size of a serving plate, making its way silently down the street where we just were. A spotlight at its front end switches on and does a sweep of the area, and I shrink back into Peeta as I see our shadows cast on the wall of a building from the ambient light. I can feel his heart beating against my back, and it's surprisingly slow and steady, not frantic at all. It's as if he's not even nervous. His breathing is even and measured, and I can feel each slow breath ghosting against my neck as he tilts his head to peer around me, keeping a calm, steady gaze on the passing hovercraft. I momentarily close my eyes at the sensation, wanting to enjoy it, but knowing it's dangerous if I do. He smells of fresh laundry, accompanied by the spiced undertone of aftershave. I've longed for these arms for weeks, but this gesture isn't meant to comfort, as it used to. This is merely meant to subdue.

With his hand covering my mouth, his forearm so close to my face, I can finally make out some of the designs drawn into his skin in the sweeping light of the hovercraft. Just on the inside of his wrist is an immaculately rendered image of one of the mutts that chased us up the Cornucopia in the arena. I want to tilt my head to inspect it closer, but he's suddenly releasing me, the hovercraft having moved well out of sight. He maneuvers me off of him before I can really begin to process what happened, and now that his arms are no longer around me, I really feel the bite of the chill in the air. I try to suppress my shiver, but I'm unsuccessful, giving an almost violent shudder as a small breeze picks up. I wonder at how Peeta doesn't even seem bothered by the cold, as I haven't seen so much as a shiver from him despite his rolled up shirtsleeves.

"Drones," he says quietly, looking down the street in the direction of the small hovercraft. "Snow's security personnel has dwindled, so he's had technology developed to replace it instead." It seems he's talking more to himself than to me, thinking out loud.

"Are they just for surveillance, or do they have mounted weapons?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "I don't know. This is the first I've seen of them, but there's nothing else it can be." He furrows his brow for a moment, then places his palm on the hood of the car and nods once as if confirming something. "Engine's cold, so it wouldn't have masked our body heat. At least we know they don't rely on thermal imaging. Otherwise it would have seen us."

He continues cautiously down the street, and I notice that his footstep has gotten a lot lighter. When we were in the arena, it was all I could do to keep him from making too much noise, but now he steps with the silent care of a hunter. As if he's had practice sneaking up on people. It's too easy for me to conjure up the image of him creeping up behind someone and garroting them. That's the impression I get from the person at my side, leading me to what could very possibly be my death, but I have no option but to trust him. I wonder how he caught that drone before I did. It's like his awareness has somehow surpassed mine. But then again, this is his territory. It's difficult for me to accept, but there's no mistaking it - Peeta is a Capitolite now. He's as comfortable here as I am in the woods.

This becomes even more clear to me when he repeatedly drifts ahead of me every time I attempt to move alongside him, and just as I feel the initial swell of frustration and anger build up in me at the affront, it occurs to me that he's reflexively protecting me. Like he's being motivated by instincts he isn't even consciously aware of. An old habit that never really died. I'm so caught up in the hope this thought brings that I miss the pod that had clearly been marked on my Holo, but Peeta's broad shoulders shield me from the burst of shrapnel that explodes just in front of us. I yelp as a small bit of sharp metal slices through my shoulder, and I clamp a hand over the cut that begins seeping blood through my sleeve as I rush over to Peeta in a sudden panic, but stop short at his composed demeanor.

He should have just gotten a face full of metal fragments, but instead he's perfectly intact and shimmering slightly beneath a hologram of faint blue hexagons that immediately fade. It's a familiar effect that I've seen before, and I stare at him in awestruck silence when I remember that I've seen this very effect in the arena, when I shot my arrow at the force field. _He's wearing the damn force field_.

"Peeta," I whisper, instinctively reaching forward and pressing the tips of my fingers into his shoulder.

He stiffens and mechanically jerks his head in my direction, causing me to immediately withdraw my hand. Then his eyes shift to the laceration in my shoulder and he coolly looks away. "You'll want to patch that up soon," he says simply, turning away from me and continuing down the street.

That's when I see the device clipped to the back of his belt, which looks like a small battery pack of sorts. Someone, somewhere has harnessed the power of the force fields as personal shields. I get the feeling this was done in secret, without the approval of the Capitol. If Peeta has access to this kind of technology, there's no telling what other resources he's got at his disposal.

"Here," he says, stopping by a recessed stairwell that leads into the basement of a warehouse. I eye him suspiciously, and he only rolls his eyes and continues down the stairs. "Stay behind, then," he calls up impatiently. "But the door to the tunnels can only be opened from the inside and I've got to let your squad in."

I hesitate, but I'd rather weigh my odds wandering into the unknown with a slightly unbalanced Peeta than stay out in the open with those drones hovering around. I give an exasperated sigh and hurry down the stairs where he's tentatively opening the door, a wave of relief crossing his face as it swings open.

"Looks like they didn't have time to lock up before they evacuated," he mutters.

The door swings shut behind us, flooding us in near darkness save for the flickering of candlelight at the far end of the room. As we draw nearer, I see the light reflecting faintly off of the glass of dozens of liquor bottles lined neatly on shelves behind a bar, and I pull up short in sudden alarm when my eyes finally adjust to the darkness and I make out the outline of a human figure perched on a barstool in the shadows. Peeta abruptly switches the light of his rifle on, shining it on the seated figure, and it's a small young woman, picking mint leaves from their stems and depositing them into a cup in front of her.

" _You,_ " Peeta says with mild surprise, and it's clear he knows this girl from somewhere.

She doesn't even look at him. "Not sure why you're aiming that thing at me. I could gouge your eyes out with a pour spout or bludgeon you with a muddler, but I'm pretty sure that rifle trumps both of them."

To my surprise, I see the ghost of a smile flicker across his lips, and he lowers the aim of his rifle. "What are you doing here?" he asks, a note of suspicion in his tone.

"I'm on the payroll for all of Sterling's clubs," she answers airily, and I hear a hitch in her voice as she says the name. "I go where I'm needed."

Peeta narrows his eyes. "You know there's a war happening, don't you? And Sterling's _dead_."

She nods, continuing with the frivolous task of separating the mint leaves, but I see her throat flex as she forces down a hard swallow. She takes a deep, shaky breath, as though it's hinged on suppressed tears. "It's going to take a lot more than that to shut this place down. We'll be at capacity once this is over, if not sooner. Someone's got to do the prep." An awkward silence hangs over us as she continues with the mint leaves, until finally she leans back and looks to Peeta, and then me. "Go on back, then. I've left dry storage unlocked because I have to go back in there, anyway."

Peeta exhales sharply through his nose, another flicker of a smile passing over his face, accompanied by a small shake of his head, as though he's just made a revelation that doesn't come as much of a surprise to him. Something passes between them - an exchange of sympathetic glances where words would never do justice to the tragedy they've experienced. A moment for a shared friend, lost to the consequences of war. It's gone in an instant when she turns back to the mint leaves, seemingly forgetting we're even here. Or perhaps engaging in a trivial, monotonous task to try and escape from the harsh reality of what's happening.

"Was that a client of yours?" I ask warily as he leads me away.

"She's a bartender," he says, and I can almost hear him rolling his eyes. "I don't even know her name."

"What was she doing with those leaves?"

"There's a rum drink that calls for them," he says idly, wrenching open the door of a closet stocked with boxes of cups and beverage napkins.

Of course. Something that I'd always relied upon for survival when I was starving, they're using for alcoholic beverages in the Capitol. How quaint.

Peeta leans down and drags a slip-resistant mat away from the center of the floor, revealing a large door recessed into the concrete beneath it, which he urgently unlatches and wrenches open. A stairway leads down to the tunnels below, and I hear rapid footsteps echoing nearby, drawing closer to the sound of the door. I shine the light from my gun down the shaft, my finger curling around the trigger, but I immediately relax when Gale appears at the bottom of the stairs, his own rifle aimed up toward me.

"Katniss!" he shouts, lowering his rifle as he charges up the stairs. I'm vaguely aware of the remaining three members of my squad as they tentatively come up after him, but he's roughly pulling me against his chest and locking his arms around me as if he'd never expected to see me again.

Gale squints in the sudden glare as Peeta aims the light of his rifle toward them, and I immediately pull out of the embrace.

"Were you followed?" Peeta asks urgently.

"No," Gale says, a palpable edge to his tone as he stiffens upon seeing Peeta.

"You're sure?" Peeta presses.

Gale narrows his eyes, scrutinizing the barrel of Peeta's rifle with distrust. " _Yes,_ " he says through clenched teeth.

Peeta nods curtly, directing the light of his gun toward the floor and casting us in half shadow. His gaze shifts past Gale's shoulder, where he locks eyes with Johanna, and they exchange a small nod. He completely ignores Boggs 2, who only scowls. Then his eyes fall on Dalton, and I see a flicker of recognition cross his face.

"You're from District Ten, no?" Peeta asks, and though his tone can't exactly be described as _warm_ , it's certainly taken on a note of what might be interpreted as sympathy.

Dalton nods as he shoots Peeta a quizzical look, and Peeta frowns slightly.

"Walk with me," Peeta says, jerking his head slightly over his shoulder. "We need to have a conversation."

I place a conciliatory hand on Gale's arm as he begins to follow, and I shake my head when he whips around to face me. "I think they need to have this conversation alone," I say darkly.

"What the hell is he doing here?" Gale hisses.

I wearily rub my face in my hands. I'm really not in the mood for another alpha male rivalry, and we've got bigger things to worry about. "Sterling St. Claire is dead, Gale." I wish I had the capacity to deliver the news more gently, but instead I just sound annoyed and inconvenienced.

Gale freezes and sharply inhales, holding his breath for a long moment before letting out a long, measured sigh. He didn't know her, but I think he was looking forward to meeting her. I can tell he's struggling with how to feel about the news. "...You've been with him since we were separated, then?" he asks finally.

I nod. "More or less."

"And you trust him?"

"He got us back together after you guys got lost," I say with a shrug. "He's still not... _him_ , but...I think we can trust him. Depend on him, at the very least. He's been...oddly resourceful. And he hasn't tried to kill me. Actually saved my ass more than once in the past hour alone."

"'Got us back together?'" Gale repeats. "Ohhhh," he groans, closing his eyes. "That was him. Dalton figured out right away that we were being _herded_ , we just...you know, thought the worst." He gives another sigh. "Guess he didn't really need saving, did he?"

I frown and shake my head, and we both watch Peeta and Dalton from across the room. Peeta is speaking to him in a gentle, hushed voice, and though we can't exactly make out what he's saying, we see Dalton's head drop forward as he brings a shaking hand to his mouth and nods. For a short moment, I see nothing but the old Peeta, even from this distance and almost entirely cast in shadow. The open, accepting posture, the sympathetic tilt of the head. I can even hear his old self in his voice, which barely carries this far, but it's unmistakably there. _He's in there somewhere_.

Peeta reaches forward and briefly grips Dalton's shoulder, and they exchange a firm nod before returning. Whatever fleeting glimpse of Peeta's old personality I saw just seconds ago is gone now.

"We need to get moving," Peeta says. "The arsenal's this way."

He leads us to the back of the club and into a narrow hallway illuminated by candlelight sconces along the walls. There's a guard standing in front of a door at the end of the hallway, and he rests one hand on the gun at his hip, pulling a penlight out of his breast pocket with the other. Peeta strides up in front of us and pulls his collar to the side, and the guard sweeps the little purple light over Peeta's exposed collarbone, revealing a glowing blue mockingjay tattooed there. Then the guard looks to us, expecting us to do the same, and Peeta places a restraining hand on the guard's wrist and shakes his head.

"No mockingjay, no entry," the guard says.

Peeta steps to the side so that the candlelight can illuminate my face. "She _is_ the Mockingjay," he growls. "And that's her squad."

There's a flash of recognition in the guard's eyes as they sweep over me, and he opens the door and steps aside without another word. I recoil as we're suddenly bathed in bright white light, and it takes a moment of stunned blinking before my eyes adjust enough to enter the room. Like Snow's bunker, this place must be powered separately by its own generator. Gale breathes out a reverent ' _Ohhhh_ ' just behind me when we see the weapons lining the walls. Some of them are like no weapons I've ever seen, but I'm more concerned with ammunition right now. I've come to learn that there's nothing more gutting than the hollow click of an empty magazine on the battlefield. I immediately stock up on cartridges, even impulsively pocketing a couple of concussion grenades the moment my eyes fall on them.

" _Fuck_ ," I hear Peeta hiss, and I snap my head in his direction to see him standing in front of a row of empty shelves behind a mannequin. "Of course all the good supplies would be gone," he mutters. "The Capitol rebels must have cleared everything out."

I come up behind him, doing my best to make my footstep conspicuous so that there's no chance he won't hear me. The last thing I want to do is accidentally sneak up on him. "There are still plenty of weapons here," I suggest. "More than we ever would have gotten in Thirteen."

"All of the shields are gone," he says.

He seems to think for a moment, then turns and starts to unhook the small box clipped at his waist, but I still him with a hand on his wrist. "Don't," I say. "Our uniforms are already armored. You need that more than any of us do. You keep it."

He stiffens at my touch, but doesn't recoil. His eyes raise to meet mine, and we stare at one another in solemn silence for a moment before he relaxes and turns away. "Stock up on whatever you need," he instructs us, moving to a large command console in the center of the room so that he can swipe at it sporadically and scowl at whatever it tells him.

I only stare after him, still puzzling at this tense dissonance in him. It's as though the old version of him keeps breaking the surface only to be shoved back down, and there's this unnerving stoicism in his wake. "Come back to me," I whisper. Perhaps it's my imagination, but I could swear he turns his head slightly over his shoulder toward me just before he moves to a storage chest at the far end of the room.

"Hawthorne," he says, and his voice is such a quiet calm that under any other circumstances, he might have gone unheard.

I see Gale bristle out of the corner of my eye, hesitating for a fleeting moment before reluctantly crossing the room. A silent couple of seconds pass and I hear a wistful gasp escape him, and I crane my neck to see what they're doing.

"It's a rocket-propelled grenade," Peeta says, and his voice has taken on that same bored drawl from before.

"I know what it is," Gale says, momentarily turning his head toward Peeta and narrowing his eyes.

"Equipped with infrared homing," Peeta continues. "Engage your target and it locks onto its heat signature for increased accuracy. ...I figured you'd prefer it."

Gale stares down at it as though it's the most precious thing in the world, then questioningly looks back to Peeta, who merely nods toward the weapon. With a slightly trembling hand, Gale gingerly reaches down and hoists it onto his shoulder, shooting another quizzical but appreciative glance toward Peeta's retreating back before returning to my side. We awkwardly watch Peeta cross the room and select an unusually long rifle with a telescopic sight, and I immediately recognize it as the same one Mitchell used to carry.

Gale leans down to whisper in my ear. "Since when is Peeta a sniper?" he asks doubtfully.

"He took out three Peacekeepers at fifty yards, one after the other. Got them all right in the head and didn't even hesitate between shots."

"What the fuck?" Gale gasps. "You're joking."

I shake my head.

"We need to get moving," Peeta says, turning to us.

My squad instinctively falls in before me, looking expectantly to me for orders.

I hold Peeta's gaze for a fraction of a second before looking to my squad and giving a small nod of assent. "We need to stay mobile. There's less of a risk of detection that way. We're to stick to the tunnels for as long as possible. Try not to use your guns, since a firefight creates too much noise and will attract more hostiles. Stealth is your friend. We're to engage anything we come across as silently and efficiently as possible. If we do have to resort to gunfire, use the alternating tactic like we practiced in the drills. Only fire when your partner is ready in cover with a full cartridge. You don't want to empty your magazine on one guy just for his squadmate to pop out and drop you while you're reloading." I pause, looking from one wistful, determined face to the other, and take a deep breath. "...And _stay alive_. Move out."

My squad falls out and begins to file out the door, and only Peeta remains rooted to the spot, his eyes trained on mine and giving away nothing. There's the faintest hint of a smirk on his lips, and there's something shrewd and cunning in the way he stares at me, a glimmer of admiration from killer to killer. We're both professionals at it now. And then he breaks the gaze, turning on one heel and following the others.

The bartender sees us out, shutting the door firmly behind us as we descend the stairs back into the tunnels. They're further underground than I'd originally thought, as we were already in a basement. I feel the hair bristle on the back of my neck, desperately trying not to think about how much concrete and metal and earth separates us from the open air. I don't like feeling trapped. I don't want to die underground.

Thankfully, there are few hurdles along the way. Our efforts in District Two thinned out the Peacekeepers considerably, and the sporadic pods we do encounter are disabled. It's easy going until we stumble upon a routine patrol in an area of the tunnels that our Holos tell us is just underneath the Training Center. We duck into cover before we're detected, fingers twitching on triggers, waiting in tense silence as one Peacekeeper paces the intersection. Peeta suddenly slips up behind the guard at a low crouch, nearly causing me to lunge after him to stop him. His footsteps are surprisingly silent though, even though he's moving rather swiftly, and I have to clamp a hand over my mouth to keep from yelping in surprise when Peeta locks a crushing arm across the Peacekeeper's chest, effectively restraining him so that he can crush the man's throat in his other hand. I wince as I remember how that hand felt, a vise locked around my life. I see the guard struggle to break free, hear the wispy breaths catch in his throat as he attempts to yell, reason, plead - formulate any vocalization that might grant him some mercy, but Peeta has always had strength on his side, and the Peacekeeper goes limp in his arms after a couple of agonizing minutes. Peeta lets the man fall unceremoniously to the ground, bracing himself as another Peacekeeper rounds the corner and raises his gun, but Peeta swiftly strides up to him and lays him out with a jaw-shattering punch before he can even pull the trigger.

Peeta snaps his head to the left, then to the right, then back again, assessing the area. "Clear," he says over his shoulder, and we tentatively rise from cover.

Gale looks to me with mildly horrified fascination, and I shrug. It's really no surprise to me. I saw Peeta's proficiency in hand-to-hand combat during training before the Games. We all saw him beat the living daylights out of other boys in wrestling competitions in school, and the brutal showdowns between him and his brother. And it's no surprise that he's been keeping his skill fresh with whatever it is he's been doing in the Capitol. I think I see a small bit of the perpetual resentment Gale has for Peeta ebb just slightly as he stares after him now, no doubt considering asking for pointers on combat techniques. _Boys will be boys_.

We scavenge whatever we can from the downed men. They have working communicators, and I take the headsets from them both, keeping one and giving the other to Gale. We can switch frequencies so that we're not communicating on the same channel as any other Peacekeepers within range, but can use it to eavesdrop on them and gain the advantage. I can only hope we come across more, but for now, these will have to do.

Another Peacekeeper blindsides us, rushing toward Peeta so quickly that I don't even know what's happening until Peeta delivers a sideways kick to the man's chest, sending him flying backward into a cinder block wall with such force that the bricks crumble a little beneath the impact of the body. I cough as I inhale some of the dust that's unsettled from the bricks, marveling at the applications his prosthetic has that I never even knew about.

"Wow," I choke out between coughs. "That thing's - "

"Powerful," Peeta says with a nod. He leans over to inspect the lifeless body and takes the headset he finds on it for himself, then continues searching the body. "Oh, _nice_ ," he mutters, and I crane my neck to see what he's found.

"More tech?" I ask.

He glances over his shoulder at me, and there's a hint of a sheepish expression on his face that's gone in an instant. "No, a Toscanelli," he says distantly, as if I should know what that means. Then I catch him slipping a cigar into his breast pocket, and I turn away before he can see the smirk that breaks across my face.

"We should stop to rest," I suggest, noticing that my squad seems to have wilted considerably since we left the arsenal. It's been more than 24 hours since any of us have slept, and Gale's looking especially fatigued under the weight of his newly-acquired weapon.

With the help of our Holos, we locate a boiler room in our grid, the lingering heat from the now-silent furnaces still trapped inside. It's a welcome reprieve from the chill of the tunnels. Peeta offers first watch, and Gale catches my eye and holds my gaze for a moment before I acquiesce. If Peeta had wanted to kill any of us, we'd certainly be dead by now. It's very clear how lethal he really is. There have been a wealth of triggers that might have caused him to have an episode, but he's been surprisingly collected. This is most definitely not the Peeta we left behind in Tigris' shop.

"Peeta," I say tentatively as we settle down on our packs, and he idly regards me out of the corner of his eye. "Why did you lie about your marksmanship?" I ask.

I see his eyes shift forward, his jaw working as though he's chewing on his answer. "You had enough to worry about," he says, and that chill has completely taken over his voice again. "It would have been particularly distressing if you'd known I was a sharpshooter."

"You did it to spare my feelings?" I ask, and I can't hide the hopeful edge that's crept into my tone. That even when he was still considerably hijacked, he was taking measures to make me feel comfortable shows promise.

His jaw flexes again, and he takes a measured breath. "I figured it would have been wise to keep the distractions at a minimum, considering we had a common goal."

I feel like I've been slapped in the face, and I feel Gale's comforting hand on my shoulder as I gasp at the dismissive remark. He just wanted to facilitate my efficiency in leading us to Snow. Only allies because we share an enemy. Under any other circumstances, I might have wanted to cry, but right now, I just want to punch something. I feel Gale's fingers tighten around my arm as my muscles tense, and he tugs me back against him so that I don't lunge forward.

"Relax, Katniss," he whispers against my ear. "He's been through hell, give him a break. He's an alright guy."

I jerk my head around and glare at Gale in the darkness. "Oh, just because he gave you a fucking grenade launcher!" I snap, a little too loudly for comfort. I wrench my arm from his grip and lay down, turning away from him.

It's a restless sleep filled with waking nightmares of hands locked around my throat and the earth caving in on me. Walls that come closer and closer together until I'm crushed and can't breathe. I start awake several times, only to find myself drenched in a cold sweat. What was previously a welcome warmth is now suffocating, and I suddenly feel claustrophobic wedged between Gale and Johanna. I need air. I wrench myself from my spot and ease up beside Peeta, where he leans against the wall just outside the room with his standard assault rifle crossed in front of him, the tactical rifle he scavenged from the arsenal slung across his back. He's just as alert as ever, and doesn't seem remotely tired. He's gripping his gun so intensely that for a moment I think he's heard something, but then I notice the tremors that spasm through his hands at sporadic intervals.

"I can take over from here," I say formally, not meeting his eyes. "You should rest."

He shakes his head. "Doubt I'll be able to." His hands twitch again, and the muscles in his jaw are tensed as he clenches his teeth.

With what I've seen of Peeta so far, it can't be nerves. He's been so collected and methodical that he's almost robotic, but right now I can see the pulse pounding erratically in his throat from where I stand. His eyes dart to an empty spot against the wall on the other side of the tunnel and he squeezes them shut before opening them again, blinking several times. " _Fuck_. _You_ ," he whispers through clenched teeth, then winces again. "Not real," he breathes.

I take a step back. I've seen this before. I've been around Haymitch enough to recognize the symptoms of withdrawal when I see them. I hastily go back inside, rummaging through my pack until I find the bottle I'd stashed in a moment of impulsiveness before leaving Thirteen. I'd intended to save it for the last moment of my life, use it to facilitate swallowing my nightlock tablet if I had to. But this is a more urgent matter. I return to Peeta and uncork the bottle, holding it out to him as a twisted sort of peace offering.

He eyes it suspiciously and smirks, shaking his head. "That won't help me much," he says, accepting the bottle anyway and taking a drink. "But thanks."

He hands it back to me, grimacing slightly. No doubt he's used to better fare in the Capitol. I want to ask him what he means, but conversation with Peeta right now seems much too daunting, so I merely take a drink. We stand in silence together, passing the bottle back and forth until it finally comes time to move out. It's probably not the best time to be indulging, but I'm beyond caring about propriety or responsibility at this point.

Our Holos indicate that we can no longer travel through the tunnels without severely veering away from our destination, so we're forced to return to the street level. Peeta is just as determined as ever, and when we happen upon a community of condos near the edge of the city, he repeatedly starts kicking down doors, storming through abandoned homes in search of whatever it is he needs to mitigate his withdrawal. The swill from Thirteen must have been much too weak for him. After door number five, we're met with a malnourished, sickly-looking man who shivers and twitches at every move we make, and I'm strongly reminded of the morphlings from District Six during the Quarter Quell. There's that same vacant expression, the lifeless, unkempt hair, the bruising around the eyes, the sallow skin. Something almost predatory flashes behind Peeta's expression of relief, and he reflexively points his rifle in the man's face.

"Your narcotics," he demands. "Where are they?"

The morphling shakes his head, holding up trembling hands.

Peeta lunges forward a little, his rifle jutting further toward the morphling's face. " _Where are they!_ " he shouts, causing everyone in my squad to jump and nervously look to me. I hold up a closed fist for everyone to stand down, keeping my distance but watching Peeta closely, my finger on the trigger.

"What do I get in return?" the morphling asks, his fingers compulsively scratching at multiple sores on his arms and face.

Peeta's nostrils flare, and I see his finger start to bear down on the trigger. "Your life," he seethes.

"He's not joking," I say, taking a step forward, my own gun trained on the morphling now. I know desperation. Peeta will most assuredly kill this man if he doesn't get what he needs. "It will really be in your best interest if you just give him what he wants."

The morphling stares at me indignantly before pointing a trembling finger toward a table next to a filthy couch, and I keep my gun trained on him as Peeta rushes over to it and wrenches out the drawer. He rummages through it and pulls out a vial, holding it up to the light and frowning slightly before pulling a clear, sealed package of syringes from the drawer.

"That's venom," the morphling warns.

"I know what it is," Peeta snaps, ripping open the package and uncapping a syringe, which takes him several attempts to jab into the vial because his hands are shaking so badly.

I watch in conflicted speechlessness as Peeta expertly finds a vein, no doubt having done this dozens of times before, and shoots up in front of us, his eyes closing in blissful relief. I have to bite my lip to keep it from quivering, and I swallow hard to stifle the sob that rises in my throat. A few stray tears drop down my cheek anyway, and I have to raise a hand to my mouth to hold myself together. It's much, much worse than I thought. Peeta is an addict. It doesn't seem like a habit that Peeta would pick up voluntarily, and I'm almost certain this is something Snow did to him to make him beholden to him indefinitely.

I shoot a warning glance back to my squad, who are all gaping at Peeta with expressions varying from sympathetic to judgmental, and the threat in my eyes alone is enough to convey the message to keep their comments to themselves. Peeta flings the used needle aside and takes another one from the package, loading it up as full as it will go. I'm about to protest, to lunge forward and stop him because there is absolutely no way the human body can tolerate a dose of anything that size and he's surely attempting to kill himself, but instead of injecting himself, he swiftly comes up behind the morphling and jabs the needle into his neck, delivering the entire dose into his bloodstream. All guns except mine point toward Peeta, and I watch in horror as the morphling's mouth opens in a silent, agonized scream and his body goes rigid, causing him to stiffly fall to the floor in paralyzed pain.

Peeta looks coolly from one squad member to the other, gripping either side of his collar and pulling his shirt open to expose his chest in a silent dare. "You can shoot me, but I'm your best chance at getting to Snow. That junkie would have sold us out the moment we left. I just did you all a favor. Better he died of overdose than something more obvious, like a bullet wound from a rebel."

No one can argue with him. He's right. All rifles lower to the ground, and we wordlessly file back out.

We continue on in silence for a moment, and I let Gale take the lead so I can fall back behind the group and walk alongside Peeta. "The morphling warned you that it was venom," I say, keeping my voice low so the others don't hear. "He meant tracker jacker venom, didn't he?"

Peeta doesn't answer for a long moment, and I begin to think either he's ignoring me or simply too high to answer, but finally he nods. "It's an altered version, not exactly the same as what they used to torture me. Designed specifically for recreational use."

I swallow the outburst of expletives that threatens to erupt from my mouth. _Recreational use_. What was used to torture us in the arena and turn one of the people I care about the most into a weapon is being used in the Capitol for people to get high.

"Snow made you do it, didn't he? He got you addicted so you'd never be able to get out."

"It does ring of his style, doesn't it?" he says with a bitter chuckle. "I can't say it isn't fucking brilliant. There's really no better way to forcefully tether someone to your cause."

"Peeta," I say, and my voice is choked. "This is going to kill you."

He nods. "Yes. It will." He says it with such a detached note of finality that it's obvious he's made his peace with that fact long ago.

I want to plead with him, to reassure him that we'll figure out something, that after everything, he can't just die like _that_ , but I'm cut short when an unfamiliar metallic screech and high-pitched hum causes Peeta to tense and abruptly raise his gun.

I look up just in time to see the drone arcing down toward us at a startling speed, a bright blue light at the front growing brighter as it advances on us, as if it's charging up to fire. Within a fraction of a second, Peeta fires directly at the drone before it can do any damage, causing it to shatter in the air above us and rain down hundreds of metallic parts that spark from the shorted out electrical components inside it. He nudges at the wreckage with his foot, inspecting the mangled pieces with a deepening frown.

" _Shit_ ," he hisses. "No trace of shells, no propellant. ...These drones are using directed energy projectiles."

I see Gale abruptly look up, and he and Peeta exchange a knowing glance. Somehow they both know this technology.

"How does your armor hold up against it?" Peeta asks, directing his question toward Gale.

Gale shakes his head. "No way to tell. Beetee said the technology didn't exist yet. It was supposed to still be in development."

"Fantastic," Peeta mutters. "I'd rather not experiment with live subjects right now. Everyone stay alert. Just hope you see them before they see you and don't hesitate to fire."

I nod, assessing the empty streets and the sun rising up over the mountains. There's enough open space for a speedy exit but enough cover in the event of a firefight. "The moment you get one of those things in your sights, you pull the trigger," I add. "They move fast, so time your shots accordingly."

I barely have time to finish my sentence before I hear that same high-pitched hum again, and we all instinctively move into formation, staggering our shots and dropping the next wave of approaching drones in a matter of seconds. We tensely wait in silence for more, but the streets have gone silent once again. We check our Holos for the most efficient route to the mountain bunker when the advertisement screens stationed around the block flicker to life, showing a view of the City Circle. I look to Peeta, whose expression is solemn as he stares up at the screen centered on the side of a building.

"How are they doing this?" I whisper. "There's no way the power could have been resupplied so quickly."

Peeta shakes his head, his eyes darting toward the still-dark row of homes along the street in the grey dawn light. "Snow's bunker was powered by a weak generator. They have to use what energy reserves they have left wisely, but it would seem they've decided it's worth allocating toward their propaganda," he says grimly.

The scene on the screens must have been recorded earlier, because it shows the City Circle filled with people who clearly hadn't been evacuated yet, and the dusky shadows of approaching sunset in the background. We watch in silence as a Peacekeeper approaches a kneeling, hooded prisoner, and the vibrant red hair that falls down around her face as the hood is lifted from her head. I gasp and chance a quick glance at Peeta, who is standing completely motionless, staring with a lethal expression of hatred and contempt as he stares up at the screen, his jaw clenched and his nostrils flared. I turn back to the screen just in time to see Sterling's haughty, scornful expression as she stares into the face of the Peacekeeper who shoots her in the head. Do I hear Peeta's voice cry out in the distance? Gale immediately whips around, turning away from the screen with a hand over his mouth. Dalton winces and drops his head, tears silently dripping down his cheeks. I look to Peeta, who is still staring up at the screen with an expression of fiery vengeance that would rival mine any day. I want to console him, but I don't dare touch him or say anything to him in this moment.

The screen cuts to a different scene, and I know it's a live image of the City Circle because it's virtually empty save for the platform on which Sterling was executed and a handful of Peacekeepers who are standing around another detainee, the sun at the same place in the sky as it is now. I immediately recognize him as Snow's war advisor. They string him up with a rope tied around his feet, pulling him up so that he's suspended upside-down above the platform. One of the Peacekeepers produces a knife like the one I use to skin animals and unceremoniously slashes the blade across the advisor's throat, causing torrents of blood to gush down his face and soak the boards of the platform. He's bled to death on live television, and I know this is meant specifically for us. There's no power in the rest of the districts. No one else will see this. A lot of limited resources were likely expended here in the Capitol just to deliver this message to us, and to any other rebels who might be watching. To me. To show what happens to traitors. We will be killed as a spectacle with no fanfare or dignity.

My squad shifts uncomfortably at the image, all except for Peeta, who merely stares up at the screen with that trademark stone expression. There is no fear or empathy in his eyes. It's as though he expected this to happen. I shoot him a questioning glance, a little displeased at how aloof he seems in all of this. He only glances to me, then back up at the screen, rolling his eyes a little when a haggard-looking Snow comes on and begins talking about treason and patriotism and how many people will have to pay for rebel sins.

"Well, he was expendable," Peeta says with a shrug, as though he's defending his unperturbed reaction. "I guess it's fortunate we expended his usefulness before they captured him."

I'm searching for something charitable to say when the screen flickers again, and Snow's speech is interrupted by grainy footage of what is unmistakably a hallway in Thirteen, a shaky frame moving toward a half-open door marked _3908_. I hear my own voice, muffled from within the room but with the edge of indignant urgency as I say, "Cinna requested _this_?" The camera moves in closer, and I see myself crouching in front of my half naked, bruised prep team with Plutarch standing over me. The camera from which this scene is being filmed can no doubt be wielded by Fulvia.

I shoot Gale a questioning glance. "Did you know Fulvia was filming?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "She must have been wearing a concealed bug. Why would she do that?" he ponders, his voice dropping as though he's asking himself.

The scene unfolds just as I remember it - me asking why they're being punished, the guard informing us they'd been tortured for stealing food, me releasing them to the hospital wing. And then there's the conversation I had with Plutarch and Fulvia, about Coin sending a message, a threat to anyone who might challenge her. A perfect reflection of the very president we're trying to overthrow. The screens flicker sporadically, struggling with the limited energy supply, but the scene changes again. It's of Coin, in the Collective, standing in front of the congregated citizens of Thirteen as she announces my consent to be the Mockingjay.

 _Soldier Everdeen has promised to devote herself to our cause. It follows that any deviance from her mission, in either motive or deed, will be viewed as a break in this agreement. The immunity would be terminated and the fate of the four victors determined by the law of District Thirteen. As would her own._

The screens go black for a couple of seconds, interspersed with static, but flicker back to life once more for one last scene. It's of the Star Squad in our first assault on the Capitol, and Leeg 2 has just been killed. Cressida and her crew were with us at the time, so the scene is more stable, less bouncy and grainy. A clear shot of a hijacked Peeta is seen strolling out of the train station. There's Boggs' angry phone call back to Thirteen, and then the conversation I'd had with him just after, which I'd thought had been private.

 _If your immediate answer isn't Coin, then you're a threat. You're the face of the rebellion._

 _So she'll kill me to shut me up._

The screens cut out again, and the images and sound are garbled, but they stay on just long enough to get out one last statement: _There's only one last thing you could do to add fire to the rebellion._

 _...Die._

The screens go black for good this time, and we all stand in silence for a long moment, staring blankly to one another for answers.

"Who's behind this?" I ask, and I see the unmistakable look of revelation light across Gale's face.

"Beetee, obviously," he says. "He's the only one who would have access to that footage and be able to hack it into what limited airtime Snow would use to broadcast to a city in lockdown. I imagine Fulvia and Plutarch had something to do with it as well. ...It would seem they're not as supportive of Coin as we thought."

The message is clear: the parallels between Coin and Snow are too great. Look at how Coin will screw you if you allow her to succeed him. It's a shame this message couldn't be sent out to the entire nation, but as long as the Capitol rebels see it, it should be enough. I feel a surge of gratitude for Beetee, for making my mission on subduing Coin that much easier. Now the people will know. I'll have the support of the people when I kill her, too.

Peeta huffs out a laugh, and I turn to see him shaking his head and smiling up at the blank screen. "Ah, I never liked that bitch," he says softly. He then looks to us, his eyes traveling from one perplexed expression to another, and he adds, " _She used me as a weapon._ Just as Snow did." His tone sounds a little clipped and annoyed, as if we should already know this.

And we do.

We're following a narrow service road outside the city, not far from the location Snow's advisor gave us when we see the hovercraft emerge from the mountains, speeding off toward the west. It's got the unmistakable seal of Thirteen stamped on it, and we all know it's transporting Coin to some unknown location. She saw the broadcast, and she feels threatened. Which rings of guilt and defeat. She's deserting.

"We can't let her get away!" I shout.

Gale reacts quickly, positioning the aim of the launcher over his shoulder, getting a lock on the target. _Make it count_ , I think, and he braces his feet and fires. The sound is deafening, and I hold my breath as I watch the missile tear through the air and impact with the aircraft, bringing it down somewhere in the vicinity from which we just came. It's too far for us to go back without wasting valuable time. We're going to have to split up.

"You need to detain her if she's still alive!" I shout at Gale over the ringing in my ears. His right ear has actually begun to bleed a little. "She'll be injured, so she won't be able to get far. Take Johanna and Dalton with you. Hurry!"

He nods once, and Boggs 2 scowls at me when he realizes he'll have to come with me and Peeta. "Surprised you want my company," he snarls.

"I just don't trust you enough to let you out of my sight," I say.

I hesitate for a moment, then throw myself into Gale's arms and place a light kiss on his lips, his jawline, the scar on his neck from when the mutts attacked us in the tunnels the last time. "You find her, and you bring her ass back to me," I growl against his ear, and then I'm wrenching away from him and storming off in the direction of our objective, not daring to chance a look in Peeta's direction.

We walk in silence for an hour before I start to see the outline of low-lying buildings in the near distance, barracks that are seemingly abandoned at the base of a small mountain. If the war advisor was telling the truth about an isolated bunker, it would be here. We can only hope Snow's still there, with the possibility of him knowing his own advisor sold him out.

None of us sees the drone until it's too late. I'm bathed in a blue glow as it charges up just above me, but it's sending out a halo of energy before I can even raise my weapon. I pin myself flat to the ground and Boggs 2 drops just beside me, but it doesn't seem to hit either of us. Then I see Peeta stagger out of the corner of my eye, his leg bending awkwardly beneath him as he crumples to the ground, and I rise up on one knee and fire after the retreating drone, hitting it squarely in its center so that it erupts in a burst of energy in midair. I scramble over to Peeta and urgently turn him to face me, inspecting him for injuries, but there's no blood that I can see.

"Fuck," he hisses, his hands going to his prosthetic as he gets his right foot beneath him and half-walks, half-drags himself to cover.

I let out a sigh of relief. "What the hell happened?" I gasp.

"It was an EMP drone, apparently," he grumbles, plopping down on the ground so that he can roll up the left leg of his pants to just past the knee joint of his prosthetic. "Fried the cybernetic components in my leg. I'm gonna have to do a hard reset." He looks up to me with a doubtful expression. "And unfortunately, you don't strike me as the type to employ the use of bobby pins."

I shake my head, pursing my lips to keep from smiling. And of course I'd left my mockingjay pin on the outfit Cinna had designed for me, which has been stashed somewhere in a drawer in Thirteen since I was promoted to Commander, and the need for propos no longer necessary. "No, but would a splinter from that shrapnel pod from earlier work?"

His eyes dart sideways as he thinks for a second, then he nods. "Yeah, I think it would."

I turn and start digging into the wound in my shoulder, which has started to look particularly unhealthy. I've ignored it because blood poisoning is the least of my worries in a situation where so many other threats would kill me so much sooner. After considerable digging, I finally get a grip on it - a thin, sharp piece of metal lodged into the muscle, and I wrench it out with a grimace and hand it out to Peeta. He gives an amused snort and looks at it as it drips blood onto the asphalt in front of him, then reluctantly takes it, turning it about in front of his face to inspect it.

"Ah, that's disgusting," he says with mock disdain, then wipes the gore off with the hem of his pants and jabs the piece of metal into a small port in the hinge of his prosthetic. A faint, mechanical stuttering resonates from his leg after a few seconds, and Peeta pulls the splinter out and tosses it away as his leg hums to life. He flexes it a little to test it, then stands and takes a few cautious steps.

It isn't a moment too soon, because that's when we see the squad of Peacekeepers swarming in our direction, backed by a handful of drones. Peeta lurches into action, leaping up onto a ladder that scales the side of a derelict building and climbing up it with incredible speed. I'm about to follow when he jerks a restraining finger in my direction.

"You stay on the ground," he growls. "I can't let those drones see me, they'll take my leg out again. I'll cover you."

Me and Boggs 2 drop into cover, and I look up as Peeta pulls the tactical rifle from his back and disappears over the side of the building. I soon hear the thunderous echo of a shot being fired, and one of the Peacekeepers drops to the ground. A rhythmic, metallic double click, followed by the clatter of an empty shell hitting the rooftop. Another thunderous boom that echoes off the mountains, another Peacekeeper drops. Another double click. Another boom that shatters a drone. It's a steady rhythm that keeps a perfect tempo, and the Peacekeepers have suddenly turned their eyes to the sky, frantically pointing their rifles in directions where Peeta isn't, trying to find the source of the threat with little success. Peeta keeps making holes in heads, and I covertly slip from cover to cover, advancing on the barracks unnoticed as Boggs 2 flanks me. A Peacekeeper that's a little too close for comfort dares to raise his head just a fraction out of cover, and not even a second passes before he's got a hole in his head.

I can hear Peeta muttering to himself through my headset, and his idle commentary as he shoots is an entertaining distraction as I slip through the battlefield toward the barracks. "Come on, poke your head out, asshole," he mumbles. "I got you, motherfucker." My laughter nearly gives away my position, but I clench my teeth and swallow the urge to erupt in hysterics.

Then there's a crackling in the earpiece of my headset, and Gale's voice is faint but distinguishable on the other end. "Katniss, do you read? We found Coin. She's alive and in custody."

I smile to myself as Peeta drops the last Peacekeeper on the field. "Copy that," I whisper, still too hesitant to come out of cover. "Make sure she stays that way. She'll commit suicide if you give her the chance."

"Katniss, there's something else."

I feel my heart slide into my stomach at the tone of his voice, and I know he's about to deliver bad news. "I'm listening."

"Plutarch was on the hovercraft with her. ...He didn't survive the crash."

I'm silent for a very long time, and I don't move from my spot. I go into a sort of daze and just stare blankly at the ground, trying to assess my feelings about it. How did I feel about Plutarch? He was resourceful. Convenient. An asset to the cause. There's a chance he was in on the latest smear propo against Coin. I replay all of my lukewarm interactions with him over the last few months, and wonder just how important of an influence he may have been in my life. And now he's just another dead body. Another tally to add to my kill count.

I mechanically force myself to my feet just as Peeta joins me, having secured the area and abandoned his vantage point on the rooftop. He undoubtedly heard the news as well, but one glance at him and his eyes are just as stone as ever. I realize his numb expression very likely reflects mine right now, and I wonder if he's as conflicted about it as I am. I wonder if he feels anything at all anymore.

That's when I see his eyes shift toward a small object that's been unsettled by my movement, and I quickly recognize it as the pearl he gave me on the beach in the arena, which has slipped out of my pocket and is now rolling away from me across the ground. I hadn't even remembered retrieving it from the drawer in my compartment, and I realize I must have done it in a compulsive daze out of habit. He smoothly stops it beneath his polished, designer shoe, a mildly puzzled look on his face as he leans down to pick it up. He inspects it for about a half second before recognition flickers through his eyes, and very slowly, the ice in them melts and I see nothing but the old Peeta, his mouth opening slightly as his brows come together in a display of overwhelming emotion. He brings a trembling hand to his mouth, and I think, _This is it. He's finally come back to me._

The moment is interrupted by a young male voice, crying out Peeta's name, and he jerks his head up in sudden alarm as he recognizes the owner of the voice. I whip around and see a young man about our age rushing toward us, and I'm slightly stricken by his beauty. Glossy, straight black hair. Dark, almond-shaped eyes, the lashes so dark and thick around them that he looks like he might be wearing eyeliner. He plows into Peeta, whose arms immediately go around him, his expression going from perplexed to alarmed to protective all at once.

"Crispin?" he says tentatively, leaning back to inspect the kid's face. His hands are stroking his hair and face almost lovingly, and there's something oddly intimate about the way Peeta touches this person that causes me to politely look away. "What are you doing here? What..."

Peeta doesn't finish, because the man named Crispin suddenly coughs blood onto Peeta's chest. We both see the knife in his back at the same time, the large stain of blood that's spread across the back of his shirt. He sags in Peeta's arms, then crumples to the ground, a small rivulet of blood trailing from the corner of his mouth. Peeta drops down beside him, frantically trying to revive him with no success. After a long, painful moment of watching this, nearly brought to tears over this stranger just by witnessing Peeta's reaction, I reach forward and gently touch his shoulder, shaking my head when he looks up at me. He looks back down at the lifeless body, hesitating for a long moment before running trembling fingers over the eyelids to close them, then slowly rises to his feet.

Whatever warmth and affection I'd seen of the old Peeta has melted away as he stares vacantly at nothing. His mouth is slightly open in shock, and he doesn't seem to be breathing. There isn't even a glimmer of tears in his eyes. Whoever this person was to Peeta, his death has moved him beyond tears. In this moment, I see Peeta die a little inside, and there's a reflection of my mother from when she was catatonic with grief after my father's death. All I can do is stare at Peeta in helpless sympathy and reticence, knowing that whatever just happened can very likely trigger a violent episode.

Very mechanically, Peeta turns away from me and begins walking toward the area our Holos indicate as the entrance of the bunker. He doesn't even seem to be in conscious control of his actions, as if he's solely operating on autopilot. Then he abruptly swivels around on his heel, and his eyes are alight with the malice and predatory fury I'd seen in him just moments before his hands were closing around my throat during that first reunion back in Thirteen. My initial instinct is to raise my gun, to defend myself, but his violence isn't directed at me. His hand isn't reaching for my throat, but pointing a finger in my face.

"You are not killing Snow," he snarls, and it's very clear that old Peeta is far, far away. This is nothing but pure, unadulterated mutt Peeta, on a warpath for revenge. "That bastard is _mine_."

I don't argue with him. He whips back around and continues storming forward, and I know I have no choice but to give him the honors. I'm strangely okay with it. With Coin in custody, I have everything I need. I'll take her, and Peeta will take Snow. We'll both get the revenge we deserve.

We're nearly to the shaft that leads down into the bunker when gunfire echoes off the mountains, and I whip around just in time to see Boggs 2 throw himself in front of me, taking a bullet to the head that was clearly meant for me. I raise my gun toward the Peacekeeper that had been lying in wait in the distance this whole time, and shoot him straight in the eye just as he fires once more, but the bullet misses me entirely. I crouch down beside Boggs 2's body, seeing the name embroidered on his uniform for the first time. _Langley_. I'd hated him and he sacrificed his life for me. It seems that a lot of people have been sacrificing their lives for me lately, and I'm not entirely convinced I'm worth it.

Then I understand that Crispin was a distraction. He was a carefully orchestrated tactic to make us vulnerable. No, to make _Peeta_ vulnerable. That was clearly directed toward him. The Peacekeeper in the tunnels that charged specifically toward him, the EMP drone that would have been harmless to everyone but him. He's been specifically targeted this whole time, and it's obvious that Snow has made Peeta a priority on his kill list. Peeta is now a bigger threat to the president than I am.

I'm vaguely aware of Peeta standing beside me, and I whip around to face him. He seems a little stunned, his face having drained of all its color. My eyes shift down to the red stain that's soaking through his clothes just over his right ribcage, and I see the unmistakable hole of a bullet piercing his waistcoat. I look back up at him in alarm, and he glances down and stares at the wound with a rather detached expression.

The EMP drone. The pulse that took out his cybernetic leg probably took his shield out too.

"It's okay," he says distantly, his eyes slightly clouded. "It's not that bad." He falls to one knee, pitching forward and catching himself with a hand braced against the ground.

Then I see the exit wound in his back.

Tears spring into my eyes and I clamp a hand over my mouth, and the world is thrown into slow motion around me. This isn't happening. Not him. Not Peeta. You can't take him away from me. Not now.

I drop down beside him, and I'm suddenly aware of the grating sobs that are coming out of me as he collapses onto his shoulder, rolling onto his back as he reaches a bloodied hand out to me. His fingers graze across my face and neck, painting a smear of blood on my skin.

"Save him for me until I wake up," he gasps.

And then his eyes roll back into his head as he falls limp beneath me.


	11. Make No Apologies

_.Peeta._

 _I have an hour to say goodbye. There's no way I'm coming back, so I have to make it count. The problem is, I can't think of anything I have to say to the people who will be coming in to say their goodbyes to me. I don't want to waste my breath on trite sentiments. I'm more preoccupied about other things right now anyway, and I try to sit down on the luxurious couch in the room, but I'm back on my feet and pacing in a matter of seconds._

 _Why her? Why did it have to be_ her _? Why, of all the little slips in that fucking ball, did it have to be Primrose Everdeen, whose name would have only been in there once? Of course Katniss volunteered. I honestly would have been shocked if she hadn't. And when I'd begun to lunge in her direction, my best friend gripped my wrist so hard that the pain brought me back to my senses, stopping me from doing something completely irrational and dangerous, like rushing over to her in a fit of panicked desperation._

 _Not that I'd ever told anyone about my feelings for the resilient Seam girl, but it's not like it wasn't obvious to the people closest to me. I'd too often spent a moment too long with my eyes trained on her at school, only to return my attention to the conversation at the lunch table and find a couple pairs of inquisitive, teasing eyes on me, accompanied by a knowing elbow nudge. With my friends standing around me during the reaping, all eyes had locked on me, and they'd protectively huddled closer before I could do anything stupid._

 _Until my name was drawn and it didn't fucking matter. It was really more of a blessing, really, because now I at least have the option of helping her get back alive._

 _I clench my teeth as my throat closes with the threat of tears, and when they finally begin to sting my eyes despite my efforts to keep them back, I impulsively turn and slam my fist through the wall. Fuck it. I'm about to be sent to my death, and if I don't play my cards right, I may have to watch the only person I have ever loved die as well. I can damage whatever the fuck I want right now._

 _I flex my fingers as the knuckles begin to bleed a little, and I shake the plaster from my hand. The mild pain is therapeutic, and it distracts me from how anxious and terrified I am for her. I'll take physical pain over emotional any day. I punch another hole in the wall, then clamp a hand over my mouth as the tears begin to flow freely._

 _Why the_ fuck _did it have to be her. I can't let her die._

 _My family enters the room, my brothers first, followed by my parents. There really isn't much to be said. There are some rough, vise-like embraces from my brothers, a couple of subdued words of sadness from my father. And then my mother is...my mother._

 _"Maybe District Twelve will finally have a winner. She's a survivor, that one," she says, and I don't miss the sneer in her tone. I don't disagree, but this wasn't meant as an encouragement to me or a compliment to the very girl she once called a vagrant and a Seam savage, among other vile slurs. This is a subtle form of mockery, disguised as consolation so she can get away with it while my father's present._

 _I exhale sharply through my nose, giving a mild roll of my eyes. I see my mother bristle and tense her arm as though she's about to rear back and slap me like she always did every time I would bat a defiant eye in her direction, but my eyes narrow and flit to the fist-shaped holes in the wall in a silent, suggestive threat, and her hand falls limp at her side. Yeah, that's right. You can't do that shit to me anymore, remember? Two can play at the uncontrollable rage game, and I'm much, much better at it. I don't have time for her disingenuous bullshit, or her pathetic attempt at getting in one last jab at me before I'm sent off to my death._

 _I turn to my brothers. "Get her out of here. Please," I say through clenched teeth. "I need to speak with Father alone."_

 _My father's not a very confrontational man, and whatever animosity he senses between me and my mother, he stays out of it. I'm grateful for it. He's a more patient man than I, and way too easily exploited for his charitable nature, and I can't imagine what would happen if he intervened. She'd likely treat him with the same condescending, belittling attitude she's directed toward me, and he'd never deserve that. My brothers steer her out of the room, and she begins to resist a little, but one last glance back at me and she's subdued a little, no doubt seeing the flash of impatience in my eyes. This is not the time to be on my bad side. There is absolutely no reason for me to practice restraint anymore._

 _The door doesn't close soon enough. It hasn't even clicked shut when I'm rushing over to my father, bracing firm hands on either side of his shoulders as I fix him with a determined, solemn stare._

 _"Father, listen to me," I say quickly, and he turns inquisitive, concerned eyes on me at the urgency in my tone. "The girl that just volunteered, I...I love her." I wince at how flat and insincere it sounds, and I realize that I'm so panicked and frantic about what has to happen now, that the first time I've ever mentioned my feelings out loud, it's with little reverence or passion._

 _He blinks once, curiously turning his head to the side, but doesn't seem all that surprised._

 _I keep sincere eyes on his, and he nods once to indicate for me to continue. "You know I'm not coming back. You know that, don't you?" I press. He purses his lips and a deep crease forms in the center of his brow, and I can tell he's struggling to hold back tears, but he merely nods once more. "I'm going to do everything I can to get her back instead. When she returns to Twelve, I want you...just...let her know, okay?" My voice falters, and I cough once to mask the hitch in my voice, but there's no stopping the tears now. I force myself to continue. "She...she misses her father. She'd probably appreciate your company. Maybe visit her sometimes. I know mom wanted a daughter anyway, and I'm sure you did too. I just need her to..."_

 _I don't finish, but he rests a light hand on my shoulder and nods, indicating that he understands. I impulsively lock my arms around his neck in a tight embrace, and his arms are just as crushing around my ribs. "She's the primary provider for her family," I breathe against his shoulder. "Make sure they don't starve."_

 _We pull apart and he looks to the floor and nods. "You know I'd never let that happen again, anyway."_

 _We both know he's thinking of Mrs. Everdeen. It's obvious he never got over her, and it killed him when they were clearly struggling after Mr. Everdeen died, and my father could do nothing about it, as much as he wanted to. It's a weight that constantly hangs over us, but that we never speak of aloud. And now that I'm going off to my death, we both share these secrets with one another. Our shared unrequited heartaches. It's hopelessly bittersweet._

 _"I'll visit the girl now, if you think...it would do any good." He looks to me questioningly, asking permission, seeking my opinion in the propriety of it._

 _I think about it for a second and nod, wiping tears from my cheek that have become an uncontrollable torrent at this point. "Perhaps you should. It could help to build her trust. I'll need it, if I'm going to help her in the arena."_

 _"I'll go by the bakery for a gift for her. The cookies you frosted this morning."_

 _A small but genuine smile breaks through my sorrowful expression. "Yes. That would be perfect."_

 _I turn away so I don't have to watch my father leave. I feel like it will hurt too much, that it would be the thing that finally unravels me._

 _The Peacekeepers finally come and escort me out, but something's off about the lobby when I come out of the room. It's different from before, when I was just here an hour ago. My family's there, and so are my friends. Katniss is there, and she's holding Prim's hand. Everyone is wearing black and they're standing with their backs to me, huddled around something I can't see. I come up behind Katniss and very softly say her name, but she doesn't respond. I touch her shoulder, but she doesn't seem to know I'm there. No one here seems to be able to see me, really, and I push through the throng of people only to come upon a nondescript pine box - the kind they use to ship fallen tributes back to their districts._

 _I look down at my own body, and my face is peaceful as though I'm merely sleeping. A chill runs down my spine, and I realize that some dreadful mistake has been made, some other person has died and been mistaken for me. I turn back to the people assembled to mourn me and shout at them, wave my hand in front of faces in a vain attempt at getting someone's attention. I'm not dead. I'm here, I'm not dead! Why can't anyone see me? None of the faces really look all that forlorn, they're just vacant and hollow, stone expressions as though they're mannequins._

 _I turn back around and jump back a little when I see that the dead me has opened his eyes, and there's something chilling and inhuman in them as they stare up at me, a sneer curling his lips. In the time it takes me to blink, he's pulled out a knife and buried it deep into my ribcage._

A painful gasp wrenches through my body, and I bolt upward a little from where I lie, which only causes the searing pain in my ribs to increase. I slam back against the bed, letting out a moan of agony, then I see the tubes running into my arm, delivering unknown substances into my bloodstream. I blink twice and try to focus my eyes, but it's difficult with the bright white halo of halogen light glaring back down at me from above. My heart jumps into my throat, and I'm vaguely aware of the frantic beeping of the heart monitor that keeps a perfect tempo with my panic.

I've been captured again. I'm being tortured again.

My hand flies to the tubes in my arm, determined to wrench them free, but a small, olive-skinned hand covers mine. I jerk my head up and see a slightly bewildered, disheveled Katniss staring back at me, a chaos of emotions registering on her face. She looks remarkably fatigued, and the creases on her cheek match the pattern of wrinkles in the sheet just next to me. She looks a little stunned, but mostly relieved.

On instinct, my hand flies to her throat. There are too many thoughts and emotions warring in my head right now, and I don't have the time or the fortitude to sort them out. I feel her pulse beating wildly against my palm as my fingers close around her neck, firm enough to hold her attention, but not tight enough to cause any damage.

"Did we get him?" I ask urgently through clenched teeth, and my vision blurs from the excruciating pain brought on by the exertion. Even the smallest movement causes me agony.

She pants a little, then nods frantically in my grip, never tearing her eyes from mine. "We got him," she breathes.

I release her and relax against the pillow just as a couple of medics dressed all in white charge into the room. I'm vaguely aware of Katniss holding a hand up to subdue them, signalling she's alright and to give us a minute.

"He and Coin are being detained until you're well enough to carry out the execution," she says.

I close my eyes. My memory is slowly coming back to me, and I remember being shot. I open my eyes again and look down, gingerly lifting the sheet off of me to reveal a patch of gauze taped over my ribs. The pain inundates my entire right side, piercing all the way through to my back, and I shift uncomfortably only to exacerbate the pain. I squeeze my eyes shut and lay back again, trying my best to lie as still as possible and relax all of my muscles in the hope that it will cause the pain to subside a little.

"Is there any possibility of them upping my morphling dosage?" I ask in mild annoyance.

"I'm terribly sorry, but any narcotics administered while you're in detox would be too risky," says a male voice from the door, and I finally look over at the medics, recognizing one of them as the emergency doctor who had apologized for having to amputate my leg. How long ago was that? Days? Weeks? It seems like a lifetime separates me and my exploits in Sterling's clubs.

I feel a stab of pain in my chest, but it's not from the gunshot wound. This is an entirely different kind of pain, and I try to avoid thinking about what's causing it. "Detox," I repeat numbly. "Not sure I follow."

"We're treating your dependency on controlled substances," he answers. "The Capitol has made groundbreaking developments in treatment for it, and you should stop experiencing symptoms of withdrawal and addiction within a matter of days. ...Unfortunately, we can't administer any opiates or narcotics during the process."

"Days?" I ask. "You can do that?"

He nods. "I really am very sorry about the discomfort. You must be experiencing a lot of pain. I can send a nurse in with something mild to help you sleep while we speed along the healing process of your physical injuries."

I nod. Finally, my eyes shift upward, to the various fluids being administered into my veins, and they're giving me blood. My breath catches in my throat, and I tentatively reach up and touch my fingers to the _A Rh POS_ printed in bold lettering on the label. There's the too familiar sting in my sinuses as the sorrow threatens to come, and I close my eyes so no one can see the glistening of tears in them. Sterling is gone. Crispin is gone.

Some small part of me, deep down in the recesses of a place I can't quite reach, is overwhelmingly thankful that Katniss hasn't joined them. But right now, all I can feel is rage and contempt and vengeance and regret. Seeing her again after all this time caused a turbulent conflict of emotions that I don't even want to begin sorting out, and I don't trust myself to not lose it and become dangerous again. It was all I could do to keep myself under control ever since I opened those blast doors, and every moment leading up to now, I've felt myself slipping. I'm still not even entirely sure of Katniss' motives, and I'm too numb and distracted at the moment to care. I'm not even sure I'm still capable of being that person she's wanted back so badly anymore. She kissed him goodbye at the tree in the arena.

"The doctors say they think you'll be well enough to carry out the execution in a week," Katniss says, and the hopefulness in her voice sounds forced.

I huff out a bemused snort. "Still as unconvincing as ever," I say quietly. "How ever did you convince all of Panem when we were in the arena?" I don't know what made me say it. To be honest, I didn't even realize I was saying it until it was already out. Like it wasn't even me speaking.

She becomes incensed, her face turning a mild shade of red, and she shoots up from her seat. She lashes out and knocks over a tray of medical utensils that had been positioned nearby, scattering the objects across the room. " _Who the fuck were you to me?!_ " she shrieks, and her steely eyes emanate nothing but betrayal and anguish and sorrow. But mostly betrayal. "We were strangers! We were fucking strangers!"

She becomes incoherent as her sobs eclipse her voice, and she struggles against Haymitch, who comes in behind her and forcefully drags her out. He returns moments later, dripping blood from a nasty scratch over his eye, and it's clear that he's doing his best to be patient and sympathetic, but it doesn't stop him from glowering at me.

"That actually did go a lot better than I expected," he says, and though he sounds annoyed, his voice is lacking the dryness of sarcasm.

I don't even look at him. I'm still really pissed at him, too. I search my brain for something cutting and clever to say, but all that comes to mind are a string of insults and expletives that I've already hurled at him before, and I hate repeating myself. "If it's okay with you, Haymitch, I'd really rather be alone right now," is all I can say.

His mouth flattens into a straight line and he nods curtly, then leaves without another word. The medics follow.

And then I fall apart. I sob so hard that I'm sure I've aggravated the stitches in my side, and I don't really care about the pain anymore because I'm hoping it will drown out the emotional agony I'm feeling now. But it doesn't, really, and the tears keep coming until I feel something cold enter my veins from the tube in my arm, sending me back into blissful oblivion.


	12. What You See is What You Get

_.Katniss._

 _I don't know what to think when they show me some of the tapes._

 _...there's a lot of kissing. Didn't seem very genuine on your part._

 _Yeah, a lot of things should count for something that don't seem to, Katniss._

 _These last couple of years must have been exhausting for you. Trying to decide whether to kill me or not._

Every vile thing Peeta's ever said to me just comes rushing back, and it's especially hurtful because of how much promise he'd shown earlier, how I kept seeing unmistakable glimpses of his old self before settling back into that unreadable, stoic personality that I thought had replaced the mutt version of him. Somewhere in my subconscious, I know he's still significantly damaged, and that he can't really control what he's saying. That he can't control whatever impulses are warring inside his head.

But I can't control my anger, either.

I'm about to strangle him myself when forceful arms restrain me from behind, and by the smell of the liquor, I can tell it's Haymitch. I flail violently against him like a wild animal, feral, uncontrolled, desperate to damage something. With considerable effort, he removes me from the room and deposits me onto a bench in the observation room on the other side of the one-way glass where the doctors have been monitoring Peeta's progress, but I immediately spring back to my feet and lunge toward him.

"This is because of you!" I growl, and I swipe at his face, gouging a nasty scratch down his eye. "Because you fucking left him in the arena when you _promised!_ "

I'm lunging forward to deliver another blow, but he firmly catches my wrists in his hands, and his grip is so strong that it's painful. "Now, sweetheart, you can either calm down, or I can have a medic come and forcibly calm you down," he says sternly, and I glance over at the medics who are waiting to jab me with a sedative.

I wrench myself from his grip, shooting him a loathsome glare before sinking down onto the bench and burying my face in my hands. "He's never coming back to me, is he?" I say, and my voice is frail and thin.

 _But remember, Snow worked on him for weeks, and we've only had him for a few days. There's a chance that the old Peeta, the one who loves you, is still inside. Trying to get back to you. Don't give up on him._

I wonder if Prim was just saying what I'd want to hear so that I wouldn't be completely catatonic with grief at the painful reality of the situation. So that I wouldn't turn into our mother, a hollow shell of a human being after my father's death, because Peeta is as good as dead too. Prim was never one for platitudes, so maybe she genuinely believed herself. I guess I'll never know.

I chance a peek at Haymitch through my fingers, and he lingers just long enough to look down at me with a sorrowful frown before returning to the recovery room. Realistically, I can't keep holding him in contempt. He didn't _technically_ break his promise. Peeta is still very much alive, despite the trauma his body has experienced over the past couple of years. It's no small feat that he survived what happened on that battlefield. Cold and terrified and so close to achieving our goal, I was at a loss for what to do, miles away from anyone who might be able to help him. I was convinced I would watch him die right there, and Snow would evade capture yet again. Desperate and frantic, I called out for Gale over my headset, hoping they were close, but knowing there would be nothing he could do.

But someone else answered my distress call. Through a hiss of static and interference, a vaguely familiar voice answered.

"I read you, Commander Everdeen. A hovercraft with an emergency medical team are being sent to your location now. Don't move him and make sure his airways are clear."

"Who the hell is this?!" I barked, suspicious of anyone lurking on our frequency that wasn't my squad.

"This is Echo, reporting in. We met briefly just before you were reunited with your squad."

The bartender from the club. She'd been presiding over the command console in the back room, somehow tracking our every move to ensure our success, and there were already several teams of Capitol rebels prepared for any crisis, backup squads just waiting for the call in the unfortunate event that my entire squad got killed. At a complete loss for what to do, I did the only thing I _could_ do and gingerly took Peeta's wrist so that I might wrap my hand around his while I waited for the emergency evac. Sliding my palm into his, I felt the unmistakable press of my pearl resting in his bloodied hand. Mere minutes had passed and the hovercraft was already descending above us, and I had just enough time to polish the blood off of the pearl and slip it back into my pocket before Peeta was being rushed on board. One of the doctors that had been there on the hovercraft that took us out of that first arena was among the emergency rescue team, already prepped for surgery. Somehow my post-traumatic mind parsed this as a threat, and it was just like that first time being lifted out of the arena, me frantic and insane as the medics worked to keep him alive.

As the medics struggled to stabilize Peeta, Gale and the rest of my squad were closing in on the barracks, and descended into the bunker to find Snow and a small security team attempting to flee through another exit, which, unfortunately for them, had caved in years ago due to age and disrepair. Coin and Snow were consigned to the same detention cells in which Peeta and Johanna had been held during their torture, and we were transported to a private medical facility Snow had hidden away in his mansion, where one of the few working generators in the Capitol still had enough energy to power the machines that would keep Peeta alive. I waited for what felt like hours, pacing the floor and biting my fingernails until they bled, when finally Gale and what was left of my squad arrived with Haymitch, who had just been transported from Thirteen. Thankfully, he had booze, though it did little to calm my nerves.

 _"He's stable and is expected to make a full recovery"_ were not the words I'd expected to hear in those final moments of uncertainty.

I'd stared at the medic blankly, not really comprehending the words. The medic went on to explain that it was actually better that the bullet went straight through rather than getting lodged somewhere inside, which would have caused something called permanent cavitation, among other complex medical terms I didn't understand, and that we really were very lucky that it had been caused by a high-velocity projectile so that the damage was at a minimum and easily repaired.

I was allowed to go in and sit next to Peeta while he recovered, forcing myself to stay awake for over a day while I waited for him to wake up. I took the opportunity to finally inspect the designs inked into his skin, which covered not only his forearm, but extended over his elbow and all the way up his shoulder as well. Gingerly lifting his wrist, I turned his forearm over and gasped at the intricate designs of scenes from our Hunger Games. The mutts that chased us up the Cornucopia. The Cornucopia itself. A tracker jacker hive and the swarms flooding out of it. Trees on fire. All of them artfully drawn into him as though they were one continuous scene, flowing gracefully from one image to the next in vibrant, bold color. There were other scenes I didn't recognize, likely things he experienced while still with the Careers, but most notable was the tattoo centered on the inside of his forearm - the seal of the Capitol, though partially obscured because of the mockingjay overlaid on it.

I stared at it numbly, first not really processing it, then trying to make sense of it. Trying to make sense of what message he might possibly be conveying with it. Trying to make sense of the risk he took by so brazenly displaying it in the Capitol. Every answer I could come up with caused tears to sting my eyes, until finally I clamped a hand over my mouth and sobbed until I passed out in my chair.

"Don't give up on him yet," Haymitch says, and I look up to see that he's returned from the recovery room and is looking mildly annoyed.

"He chase you out, too?" I ask flatly.

Haymitch sighs and sinks down next to me. "There's no telling what all Snow was making him do here. I can only imagine he feels we abandoned him again. Whatever progress he may have been making in Thirteen is..." He trails off, pulling the flask from his pocket to take a drink. He passes it to me and I gladly accept it. "We'll probably have to start over. But the damage can be repaired, we know that now," he says finally.

I exhale sharply and shake my head. _"Progress,"_ I say wryly. I open my mouth to say more, but realize I'll only make myself angrier if I vocalize any of what I'm thinking or feeling right now. Instead, I just take a hearty drink and hand the flask back to Haymitch, then wrench myself from the bench and leave the room. I aimlessly lose myself in the corridors of the mansion until I find my way out to the main lobby. It looks like a cyclone hit, and no one's been here to straighten up the wreckage of the chaos and looting that resulted in the power outage.

A chandelier hanging from the ceiling flickers sporadically before buzzing to life, and I jump as a large television recessed into the wall fills the room with a burst of white noise, filling the room with the grey glow of static. District Ten has been hard at work restoring the power, though it's been largely intermittent with the shift in energy resources. The wind turbines haven't quite been finished, but the petroleum they drilled in the Dunes will be sufficient enough to at least marginally sustain the country in the meantime. Just as it was in Twelve, power will be available only for a couple of hours in the evenings, at least until the wind turbines can be built and patched into the grid. The surviving citizens of Panem have been advised to stock up on oil, candles, and firewood until the power can be fully restored.

Clenching my teeth against the deafening noise, I hurry over to the television and reach up to turn it off, but I hesitate when the sound abruptly stops, replaced by a silent image of a mockingjay on the screen. I slowly lower my hand and back away, watching the screen in reticence as the scene changes to what I instantly recognize as the war council room in District Thirteen. I know it's a recording because there's Coin, and Plutarch, and Boggs 2 - _Langley_ \- standing around the table, swiping at the various control panels and shrewdly inspecting the maps displayed on the tables. I wonder if it's still Fulvia who is wearing the hidden bug, eavesdropping on this moment for everyone, and my heart sinks as I consider what might possibly be important enough that would require exploiting this fleeting opportunity for a propo.

"Rebels and civilians are heavily concentrated in the City Circle now," Coin says distantly, her eyes focused on a map of the Capitol. "We have to act quickly, before the rebels take the mansion so that it's convincing. The first wave of bombs will take out the refugees in front. We detonate the second wave just as the medics arrive. We may have to sacrifice a few of our own, but it's worth the risk to turn the last of Snow's supporters against him. We've got Capitol hovercraft in our possession now, so as long as the aircraft dropping the parachutes bears the Capitol seal, we're free of culpability."

I don't hear the rest of the propo. There's that deafening rushing sound in my ears whenever I begin to panic or feel a wave of dizziness overtake me, and the world starts swimming, blurring at the edges. I see Plutarch's concerned expression, a firm shake of his head. A gesture so firm and sharp, it almost seems violent, his fist slamming into the table. He seems remarkably concerned, but I don't hear the words he's saying because the sounds of my disjointed, panicked breaths drown out everything. _It was Coin_. The parachutes that delivered the bombs to the refugees in the City Circle, the ones that killed my sister, were delivered by none other than the leader of the rebellion I incited. The rebellion that started all because I was trying to _save my sister_.

And it was Coin who made a fucking farce out of all of it. Everything I've done, exploited and wasted by her. And it becomes very clear to me that those bombs might have very likely been meant for me. What better way to conveniently dispose of the opposition? I've always ever been a threat to her. An inconvenient necessity. I've never felt anger or hatred to the magnitude I'm feeling it now. It's as though one of those bombs is inside me, and it will explode if I don't harm someone. I'm no longer all that concerned about Snow anymore. Peeta can definitely have him. Those two have a more personal score to settle between them, anyway. And mine is with Coin.

I whip around on my heel, determined to rip apart every room in the Capitol until I find the one where Coin is being detained so I can bash her face in until she no longer has her teeth, but Gale is standing just behind me, his face stunned and apologetic and a little guilty. Because of course, the bombs that killed my sister are a little too familiar. A little too like the designs based on Gale's traps, that played on human sympathies. All those hours Gale and Beetee spent together down in Special Weaponry, discussing tactics and new strategies to take out the enemy, and I'd been too distracted by Snow to catch it until now. I know Gale sees the revelation on my face, because he holds up his hands in surrender, a ridiculous, useless gesture meant to placate me when all it does is the opposite.

"Was it you?" I seethe, and I have to clench my teeth because I'm shaking so badly. "Were they yours?"

Gale purses his lips to keep his chin from trembling, but there are tears glistening in his eyes. He shakes his head once. "Katniss, we had no way of knowing Coin would make that call. How could we have known she'd exploit our - "

" _Was it your bomb?!_ " I erupt, and I'm shaking so hard I might just hit something out of reflex. My fingers are twitching with the urge to strangle him, and I begin to wonder if this is exactly how Peeta felt just before his hands were closing around my throat.

He eases closer to me, the way he does with a wounded animal just before he's about to deliver the fatal blow. "I don't know. Beetee doesn't either. Does it matter? To you, it might as well have been."

I clamp a hand over my mouth and my knees give out beneath me, causing me to sink to the floor. Gale rushes over and swoops down in front of me, but I jab a warning finger in his direction, telling him to keep his distance. It's too much. This is too much. Betrayal from all sides. There's no one left. I have no one. _Don't you dare fucking touch me_. I know he sees the warning in my eyes, because he hesitates and slightly draws away from me.

"Katniss, please," he whispers, and he sounds breathless, like the wind's been knocked out of him. Tears are falling silently down his face, and I've never seen him so broken. "There was nothing we could...we couldn't have known..." He trails off, giving up when he realizes there is absolutely nothing he could say to placate me right now.

And perhaps Coin did exploit him, the way she exploited me. A weapon is only as good - or bad - as the person wielding it. And both of us were mere weapons, tools for Coin's cause. But it doesn't make it sting any less, that the tactical design of my best friend, lover, whatever Gale is to me, for all that it matters now - was also the thing that killed the very person I'd done all of this to save. If I were someone else, observing it all from the outside, I'd find something dreadfully, tragically, beautifully poetic about the irony of it all. But instead it just pisses me off. Perhaps in some way, this is my punishment for inciting this war. The inspiration for my rebellion had to die in the end, didn't she? And it would be just my luck that even if I hadn't done all of this, even if I hadn't pulled out those berries, or if Peeta and I had somehow convinced the nation not to rebel and the Games went on indefinitely, Prim probably would have been reaped anyway. Because isn't that how it works? Family members of victors almost always get suspiciously drawn. How very fucking quaint.

"I failed you, Katniss," he whispers. "The one thing I promised to do - protect your family - and I couldn't even do that."

All I can do is weep in silence. I let the tears come and don't make any move to get up, or to even look at Gale. I won't even give him the dignity of acknowledging his presence. I just stare at the floor and ignore him until he whispers a brittle _"I'm sorry"_ and quietly leaves me alone in the room. I don't even notice that the blaring white noise of the dead television has returned until the room abruptly goes silent, the lights blinking out once the power shuts back off. I must have been sitting here for a couple of hours then, catatonic with grief, just like my mother. Perhaps neither of us were ever equipped to deal with loss. I understand now why she checked out for so long after my father died. It doesn't mean that I forgive her, but I definitely get it now. I might have done the same thing.

The next several days blur into one another. Grief and despair and guilt and loneliness just start to meld into one final emotion - hate. Rage and hate. They consume me, and I'm counting the seconds until I can finally kill Coin. I don't know what will become of me afterward. I can't envision my life after that. Perhaps I'll kill myself. My one purpose in the world is to kill her, and after that, I'll be nothing. I wander the halls of the mansion, never able to really sleep, but never fully aware of my surroundings, either. I'm on this weird sort of autopilot, mechanically responding whenever someone speaks to me, forcing myself to eat even though I feel like it might just come right back up again. I refuse to speak to anyone. I talk to Haymitch, but only for the booze. He's just as dreadful and obnoxious as ever, but he has liquor, so I tolerate him. I don't visit Peeta. Even if I weren't too numb to be concerned with the progress of his recovery, I'd be too afraid of whatever painful encounter awaits me in that room. I think that whatever he might say to me would be the thing that finally breaks me completely.

Drinking myself into oblivion with Haymitch begins to wear off. Perhaps whatever swill it is he's drinking has finally become too weak to be all that effective for me. Perhaps he's intentionally diluting it to be a dick. Either way, I'm not quite numb enough, and I find myself sneaking down to that medical facility and swiping narcotics from the storage room when no one's looking. I knew it had to be easy; what little I've seen of Johanna, she's been clearly loaded. The track marks on her arms don't lie, so I know she's been pilfering from the stores as well. With the syringe and vial concealed in my palm, I aimlessly wander about in search of a place I won't be bothered, stumbling into an unfamiliar wing of the building.

It's the manufactured, overwhelming floral aroma that brings me to my senses. That nauseating scent of genetically engineered roses that invokes fear and rage and hatred, a scent that I can't not associate with blood now, because it too strongly bears an association with Snow. My first instinct is to run and hide, because he's here, somehow, and he's finally come to finish me off himself, but the small, almost nonexistent voice of rationale in me tells me that's not possible. Snow's being detained elsewhere. He isn't here now. Perhaps in a moment of spite to myself, I petulantly shove through the door where the scent seems to be coming from, and find myself in a lush garden - a greenhouse full of roses, in every color.

This must be where Snow tended to them, and handpicked one everyday to wear on his suit. They've been neglected recently, but these aren't natural roses, so many of them are still vibrant and healthy and unnervingly perfect. The bushes haven't been pruned, and they're beginning to grow a little out of control. This is the perfect place to hide. No sane person would want to be here, surrounded by this perversion of nature and beauty. The scent alone is enough to induce a migraine, but I'm about to be numb anyway. Losing myself in the rows of overgrown bushes, I settle onto a bench and tie off my arm. Just as I'm about to slide the needle into the vein, a harsh, abrupt voice startles me out of proceeding.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Peeta's voice is strong and scolding, and much too brusque to really sound like him, but it's unmistakably him.

My head snaps up and I see him rounding the corner of a hedge, eyes burning with accusation and contempt. He looks surprisingly healthy. Furious, but healthy. I freeze, the needle still poised at the crook of my arm. This looks most assuredly like mutt Peeta, and my mind frantically searches for a viable response that won't provoke him or endanger myself. Too little too late, as he's storming up to me, his gait a little pained from the wound still healing in his side, but he lunges forward and wrenches the syringe from my hand with considerable force.

"Do you have any idea what this shit does to you?!" he shouts, his voice urgent and chastising as he flings the syringe to the ground and crunches it beneath his shoe. The movement is so abrupt and borderline violent that it causes me to jump. "For _fuck's_ sake, Katniss." He whips around, swiftly turning away from me as if he doesn't have the patience to even look at me, and his hands go to his head as he wearily runs his fingers through his hair.

The movement must have aggravated the wound in his side, because he cringes a little and his muscles tense, though no cry of pain escapes him. He merely keeps his back to me, then slowly lowers his arms and drops his head a little, giving a small sigh. He then turns his head over his shoulder, showing me only his profile as he peers at me from the corner of his eye. "The execution will take place this evening while the power's on, so they can broadcast it live across the country," he says evenly. The frosty edge has returned to his voice, with no hint of emotion or inflection peeking through. "Make sure you're ready."

He's gone as abruptly as he arrived.

I'm left in a daze after he leaves, my eyes trained blankly on the shattered syringe at my feet. It's becoming more and more difficult to distinguish the mutt version of Peeta from the normal one. And who was that just now, then? Still no sign of the charitable, nurturing person I first shook hands with on that stage nearly two years ago. The boy who once threw me the bread is gone, and will probably never come back. ...But would the monster Snow created care about me potentially becoming an addict? My head hurts. I don't know if it's a result of my conflicted thoughts or the perfume-saturated air of the greenhouse, but it's overwhelming enough that I feel I might faint. _The execution is tonight_.

Is that excitement that causes the quickening in my chest, the first quiver of emotion I've felt since I found out the true nature of Prim's death? Or is it nerves? I feel oddly detached from the world, too calm to be nervous or apprehensive about something I've admittedly fantasized about doing for months. Before, when it was about being a spectacle, a simple object for entertainment, I'd been disgusted by the idea of killing people. After winning the Games, I found it particularly repulsive that I was being heralded as a hero for killing people. It's different now. I don't feel apprehensive about killing people. I'm confident that I won't feel remorse afterward. _It's finally happening_.

I'm so preoccupied with working out every detail of how the evening will play out that I don't realize I've been blindly wandering through the corridors until I quite literally trip over Gale. His arms go out to steady me, but he must see the way I dramatically recoil away from him and immediately withdraws. It's the first I've seen of him since that last propo, and one glance at his broken, guilty expression causes me to immediately look away again. I avoid his eyes. I'm afraid that if I look at him, I'll harm him. As big as this house is, I figured I'd be able to avoid him indefinitely, but it's clear that would be an unrealistic goal. Instead, I settle for a lack of open hostility and simply refuse to acknowledge his presence. I just keep my head down and step around him, hoping he won't do something as reckless as speak to me.

"Katniss."

Of course that would have been asking too much. I stiffen at the way he says my name, so soft but with such conviction, and it's sobering to hear so much pain and emotion conveyed in just one word. I pause for a moment, but keep my back to him and say nothing.

"A brief committee is being held in Snow's study before the execution," he says, and I can tell he's struggling to keep his voice even and neutral. "Anyone who had a significant role in the rebellion is expected to be there. You don't have to go, but...your presence would be appreciated."

I'm about to ask _By whom?_ but he doesn't wait around long enough for a response. He must sense my animosity, because he immediately stalks off down the corridor, leaving me alone again. I forget that he knows me and the way I think all too well, which makes everything about this all the more infuriating and unbearable. And who else will be present at this committee? I wonder if Peeta will be asked to be there as well. The thought of it is particularly daunting, and every instinct tells me to blow it off, but I'm much too wired to do anything else. It's either attend the meeting or pace my room and try desperately not to attempt another rendezvous with morphling.

The study is surprisingly inviting and warm, and my eyes immediately go to the assortment of liquor bottles arranged on a table at the opposite end of the room. I have to fight the urge to inspect it closer, especially since even Haymitch is seated patiently at the discussion table without a drink in his hand. Gale is next to him, and he's staring a little too intensely at the table in front of him, trying desperately to keep his head down now that I'm in the room. Beetee and Johanna are there, and even Annie is seated among them, her shoulders curved inwardly a little as she seemingly tries to shrink into her seat, her hand clasped protectively over her belly. I feel a stab in my heart when my eyes fall on the empty seat next to her, where I imagine Finnick would be sitting, perhaps leaning in toward her to lay his hand on her gradually swelling belly. There's the sting of tears in my eyes and the hollow feeling in my chest at how horrible everything is now, how so many good people lost someone important to them because of me, and I want nothing more than to run from the room and never be seen by anyone ever again. It's a fleeting sensation though, because to my surprise, Enobaria swiftly sinks into the empty seat, causing me to recoil a little in disapproval. It takes me a moment to figure out what she's doing here, but it occurs to me that my own bargain with Coin must have protected her, and all of the surviving victors that weren't killed in the purge are present for whatever is being decided here. All except for Peeta. He's nowhere to be found.

There are others taking seats at the table, and a few of the faces are unfamiliar. I recognize Commander Paylor, and a lieutenant from Two who had been Lyme's first in command, which leads me to believe she was apprehended and killed in the purge with the rest of the victors. The commanding officers from the rebel armies in the other districts are all present, and I quickly learn that this is what makes up the interim government that had to be hastily formed after Coin and Snow where apprehended, tried, and found guilty of their crimes. I reluctantly take the seat on the opposite side of Haymitch, and he shoots me an encouraging glance that I meet with a scowl. I just want this to be over with so I can kill Coin, and Peeta can kill Snow. That's the only reason I'm here.

"As you all know, the execution is taking place tonight," Paylor begins, and her voice is grim. "It will be aired live across the districts. Afterwards, candidates from each district will be nominated and an election will be held to appoint new officials in the government. Everyone in this room is encouraged to run for any office available, as you've all experienced the war firsthand. And tonight we've asked the surviving victors of the Games to be present because we'd like to hold a vote - "

At this point, Paylor's speech is cut short when the door abruptly swings open, causing all heads to turn as Peeta sweeps into the room, looking mildly irritated and distracted. Again, I'm stricken by how healthy and _whole_ he looks, the broadness of his shoulders having returned, the gaunt, sunken features of his face completely gone now. His coloring is healthy and his hair is neat and perfect, and though there's still a glacial flash to his eyes, there's a shrewdness and an awareness there that's replaced the deadened look I'd seen in them when we first brought him to Thirteen. As always, he's immaculately dressed, not one wrinkle in his tailored waistcoat or pants, his shirtsleeves evenly rolled up to the elbows to expose his muscled forearms, his tattoos colorful and vibrant in the grey winter light filtering through the window. He could be just another Capitolite.

All eyes follow Peeta as he sweeps past us and goes straight for the table with the liquor, showing no sign that he even notices we're here. There's a pronounced clattering of glass as he rummages through the bottles, and he stiffens for a moment at the prolonged silence in the room and very pointedly turns, his eyes finally falling on us.

"Well, carry on then," he says with an impatient wave of his hand.

There's a short pause as everyone shuffles in their seat, perhaps expecting him to take a seat at the table as well, but I know he won't. He merely turns back to the bottles, the musical tinkling of crystal causing the only noise in the room. Paylor hesitates, but recovers quickly, returning to her announcements.

"We'd like to hold a vote among the surviving victors on whether to have a final Hunger Games, where the children of Capitol citizens found guilty of treason will be reaped," Paylor finishes.

There's a tense silence around the table as everyone collectively holds their breath. I hadn't known exactly what to expect of this meeting, but certainly not this. I look from Johanna to Annie across from me, and then my eyes slide to Haymitch. Peeta is still clattering away at the liquor table, seemingly oblivious to the conversation and causing something of a mild distraction from the unease that has just settled over the room. It's almost comical, in a way, and I have half a mind to push up from my seat and join him in a drink.

"Whose idea was this?" I ask, and my voice sounds breathless and small. I can't believe we're even discussing this.

"Coin's," Paylor says with a frown, and I can tell just by the drop in her tone that she disapproves. "But the idea has been considerably popular among survivors of the most oppressed districts, who feel that reparations awarded to them and executions of Capitol citizens aren't enough to compensate for the extreme suffering they experienced. Most were rallying for the complete annihilation of any Capitol citizen, but I speak for myself and every official here today that genocide is simply out of the question. Not to mention our population would never be able to sustain it. Morally and pragmatically, it is not an option. But a final, symbolic Hunger Games has been suggested instead. We've left the decision to you victors."

"And what do _you_ think?" I ask.

She sighs and the corners of her mouth tug downward in a frown. "It doesn't matter what I think. I was never in the Games. I don't have the perspective to make that judgment. The decision rests entirely on you seven."

Enobaria and Johanna don't even hesitate to vote yes. Annie predictably votes no, and reminds us that Finnick would have voted no if he could have been here. Beetee agrees. All eyes fall to me and Haymitch, and I know he's waiting for me to speak first. Perhaps it's a little unfair. Capitol children can't help being born to reprehensible, despicable parents. But then, we couldn't help being born in the districts, and that did nothing for the sympathies of the people who sent us off to die for their entertainment. I think about all of the things that led to me being in this room now, of all the things I did to protect Prim when they all ended up amounting to nothing, and I find little reason to extend any mercy or fairness to children who will likely grow up to be just as corrupt as their parents were anyway. I vote yes. Haymitch quickly agrees with me.

The uncomfortable silence falls over the room again, and all eyes are on Peeta now, who seems like he can't even be bothered to include himself in the discussion. A part of me wonders if he just showed up here as an afterthought, or if he even knew about this meeting taking place at all. It occurs to me that he may have only come in here simply because he needed a drink, and now we're all an inconvenient intrusion on his solitude. He must feel our eyes on him because the clattering of glassware stops and he gives an impatient sigh, lifting his glass to his lips as he turns. He looks to each of us, then snorts and rolls his eyes.

"Are we really discussing this?" he says dismissively, and his tone is bored and almost condescending. "You know, democracies aren't built in a day. There are still corrupt officials and soldiers in the districts that need to be dealt with and replaced. Reparations paid out to survivors, provisions divided among the people, medical care to the injured and disabled. A new, nationwide currency needs to be developed. Effective but humane law enforcement officials trained and appointed _that aren't Peacekeepers_. Infrastructure is a mess and needs to be completely redesigned. But here we are..." he slowly moves away from the liquor table, making a little flourish with his hand, "discussing a frivolous charade that would divert time, energy, manpower, and resources that _should_ be spent on those things I just mentioned. And good luck finding experienced employees to contribute to that endeavor. Do you think anyone in the districts rallying for another Hunger Games knows a damn thing about building an arena? Or being a Gamemaker? All of the people who held those jobs before are either retired...or dead. And you'd have more luck getting the dead ones to contribute to it than the retirees, that's for damn sure."

The silence is deafening. No one even moves. All eyes are on Peeta, and every face holds some degree of shock. This person who was nothing short of insane just months ago is now the most rational, practical person any of us has likely ever met. Out of all of us, the one who got screwed the most is the only one who isn't voting based on emotions.

"All things considered," he continues, coming to stand at the end of the table, "it would be a real joke of a spectacle, and has the potential to be the longest - or shortest - Hunger Games in existence. Not to mention the dullest. Capitol children are vapid, helpless, and shallow at best. They've lived a life of privilege. They have no survival skills, much less the motivation or fortitude to kill another person. It would be, as Plutarch would say, a flop. If he were here, he'd already deem it a failure. Pragmatically speaking, it's a frivolous idea. Absolutely not. I vote no, because it's fucking stupid."

He drains his glass and slams it down on the table, causing those nearest to him to jump a little in their seats.

 _Pragmatically speaking_. The Peeta of two years ago would have vehemently opposed it because any more killing would be morally reprehensible. The Peeta of today merely finds it a waste and a bore. This is a person who no longer feels even a shred of emotion, so it doesn't color his judgment. He speaks exclusively from the head and not the heart. Which would be ideal in situations like these, but this isn't Peeta anymore. This isn't _my_ Peeta. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from bursting into tears, and I feel like there's a massive, gaping hole in my chest that will never be fixed.

"I change my vote," I say, not even realizing I'm saying it until it's already out. My voice sounds small and frail, and I'm surprised anyone even hears me, but all eyes shift to me.

As conflicted as I am about Peeta and where we stand with each other, and as angry and vengeful as I am about Prim, I can't deny that Peeta has a compelling argument. After letting his words truly sink in, I feel stupid and petty for not originally thinking of all of the things that should hold a higher priority with me as a rebel and a victor. I can only imagine how many disadvantaged people in the poorer districts would have to struggle longer so resources that would have gone to them could be diverted into another farce of justice. It's too high of a price to pay for my own personal revenge.

"I vote no," I say, asserting my voice so that I'm clear and that there will be no misunderstanding.

Peeta, who has turned away from us and is seemingly reconsidering another beverage, is paused in mid-step as he turns his head over his shoulder in response to my vote. Is that an approving smile or an ironic sneer curving his lips? I can't tell because he quickly turns away from us again and is returning to the liquor. There's a soft snort from Haymitch, and Johanna and Enobaria recoil in their seats. They're staring daggers across the table at me, but I'm too exhausted and numb to feel intimidated by their hostile glares, so I coolly meet their eyes in a silent challenge, holding their gaze until they both uncomfortably look away. I've got nothing left to lose at this point. Recklessness is my only respite from how much hate and anger I feel now.

Paylor nods, and she seems to sag a little with relief as she looks to the other rebel commanders and nods once more. "All right then. We'll have manpower and resources diverted to reparations as soon as possible."

Everyone is dismissed so they can take their places for the execution, and my prep team rushes in to make me presentable for the cameras. I'm surprised when Portia quietly slips in, throwing me a quick smile as she rushes over to Peeta to do some final tweaks to his hair and clothes, though he already looks immaculate and poised. I hear him speaking softly to her as she works, though I can't make out the words. It's very subtle, almost indistinguishable, but I can definitely hear a hint of his old tenderness in his voice, just beneath the surface. It almost sounds humble, and judging by his tone, it sounds like he's apologizing for something. My prep team's chatter eventually drowns him out though, and I'm so distracted by their hurried movements that I don't realize that he's come to stand next to me until he sets a glass of something down in front of me. Although the gesture is as deliberate and nonthreatening as possible, I still jump, causing Venia to purse her lips at me as she smudges at my face with a bit of smooth cotton to erase the mistake I just caused her to make.

I stare blankly at the glass, then shift my eyes to Peeta, who is leaning casually against the table as he watches me. My entire prep team immediately falls silent, and their movements become stiff and disjointed as they try desperately to hide how awkward they must feel.

"It's gin," Peeta says nonchalantly, taking a drink from his own glass as he keeps his eyes steadily on me. "It's what I usually drink."

As if that answers even one of the dozen questions racing through my head, the most prominent one being why he's even offering me a drink in the first place. Even this small, trivial act of cordiality is perplexing and suspect, and my mind immediately goes to what his intentions might possibly be for doing it.

"You're shaking," he says, seemingly reading my mind as his eyes flit to my trembling hands. "We wouldn't want you missing your shot from nerves."

I shake my head and roll my eyes, remembering his reasons for lying about his marksmanship and how any measure he might take that is presumably for my comfort is really only for a very practical, systematic reason. "Yeah, well, we wouldn't want me missing my shot from being impaired, either," I say bitterly.

I keep my gaze locked straight ahead, refusing to meet his eyes, though he keeps them steadily on me. Somehow I get the feeling he can see right through me, and it makes me uncomfortable. Very slowly, he pushes the glass closer to me with two fingers. There's something so deliberate and precise about the way he does it, it's almost mechanical. A command carried out in a gesture. My eyes flit to the glass, and that's when I smell it - an aroma so familiar that I feel like I've been punched in the face. It smells like Twelve. It smells like home. I'm assaulted with memory upon memory of times I hunted with Gale in the woods, moments with my father by the lake, an afternoon with Prim in the Meadow. It's such an intense trigger of memories that my initial urge is to knock the glass across the room, to be as far away from this vile substance that must have been manufactured in a Capitol lab somewhere so that it specifically reminds me of everything I've lost.

But something about what Peeta says gives me pause.

 _It's what I usually drink_.

...Why? Perhaps he's lying, but he'd have no reason to. As dreadful as he's become, I don't think he'd intentionally antagonize me in such a way. Everything he does now is motivated by practicality and reason, and taunting me just before the execution would serve little purpose. And this is apparently what he's been drinking while he's been in the Capitol. I don't know why, but this is somehow reassuring to me. I gingerly reach forward and take the glass, immediately emptying it in one swallow. It's abrasive at first, but then I'm flooded with warmth and an herbal, aromatic taste lingering in my mouth that isn't exactly unpleasant. And in an instant, I'm relaxed and my hands are steady, the memory of Prim and my father so fresh in my mind, inspiration for what I'm about to do.

It's very clear that Peeta knows exactly what he's doing.

"You ready?" he says quietly, and his eyes are burning into me with such intensity that I can no longer avoid his gaze.

I look up at him and slowly rise to my feet. "Let's go."

Peeta and I are guided to the doors as Haymitch mutters instructions to us, then I'm handed my bow, and Peeta his rifle. As directed, we stand shoulder to shoulder, and simultaneously step out onto the balcony to cheers from the overflowing City Circle. I see our faces on the screens stationed on the buildings around us as the cameras zoom in on us, and I look slightly bewildered, while Peeta is just as composed and stone as ever. Then Coin and Snow are escorted out onto the balcony, where they're both restrained against posts several feet away from us. On cue, we raise our weapons. I glance over at Peeta, and his expression is one of pure, unadulterated hatred as he glares at Snow, such seething fury and loathing in his eyes that I can almost feel it, and I'm grateful I'm not the one on the receiving end of it. His jaw is flexing as he grinds his teeth, and for a fleeting moment, I can clearly see the pain beneath his hatred. He seems to be holding back tears. I'm reminded of that moment on the battlefield when Crispin died, when in an instant, I watched Peeta fall apart, as though a light suddenly faded to black within him.

Peeta suddenly jerks his head to the side and he meets my eyes, and he gives me a firm nod. We aim. I fire. The crowd erupts into a deafening roar as Coin sags against her post, my arrow protruding from her chest. I'd wanted so desperately to send it through her eye, but I was instructed to go for the heart. But Snow is still alive, as Peeta hasn't fired yet. They're still staring at one another, and Snow is just as smug as ever as he taunts Peeta with a condescending smile. He thinks he's safe because somehow Peeta has lost his nerve. That can't happen. If Peeta can't do it, I'll kill the bastard myself.

"Peeta?" I say tentatively.

He shakes his head and lowers his rifle, muttering something under his breath that I don't quite catch.

"Peeta, do you need me to - "

"It's not good enough," he says, louder this time so that I actually hear.

He tears his eyes from Snow, looking to one of the guards as he mutters something that causes the guard to respond with an expression of bewilderment. Snow is then released from his post and escorted from the balcony, with Peeta following behind.

I reach out and grab his elbow to stop him. "What are you doing?" I hiss.

He abruptly wheels around and fixes me with a glare of such impatient warning that I immediately let go. "What should have been done in the first place," he says.

I'm too lost in the chaos of the moment to really question what's happening or where we're going. Guards sweep past us to collect Coin's body, and she's unceremoniously hauled away. I blindly follow Peeta and the guards escorting Snow as they march through the mansion and down to the street, where Snow is forcefully shoved into the back of a waiting car. Peeta stops in front of a row of detainees - Snow's remaining accomplices and officials, who are awaiting their own execution by firing squad. He comes to stand in front of a small woman who reminds me of a flower that's been left out of the sun too long, and I imagine she'd be pretty if her skin wasn't so sallow and the circles under her eyes so pronounced. I gather by the sneer he gives her that he recognizes her from somewhere, and she must know him because she pointedly avoids meeting his eyes, keeping her gaze cast downward.

"Can you keep him alive the way you did with me?" he says, and though his voice is soft, there's a note of cunning eagerness lingering beneath the surface.

It's a vague request, and I can't possibly make out what he's talking about, but she seems to understand exactly what he's asking, because her head snaps up and she fixes him with a look of such horrified vulnerability that I almost feel sorry for her. I feel an inexplicable, dreadful sensation creep up in my chest, and the guileful, sadistic glint in Peeta's eyes makes me uneasy. This is the mutt that tried to kill me. There is no sign of the old Peeta, or the diplomatic in-between version of him from just moments ago in Snow's study.

" _Yes or no, can you do it?_ " he presses, raising his voice just a little with a note of urgency. "I'll personally grant you immunity," he adds, knowing that this added bargain will be the only way to get her to agree to whatever he's asking of her.

She hesitates, but responds with a quick, nervous nod under the pressure of his scrutiny. Peeta looks to one of the guards and snaps his fingers, indicating for the woman to be released. The crowd is getting out of control as confusion sets in, and people scream and shout for Snow's death with a few choice words hurled at Peeta as well. He either doesn't notice or doesn't care, and he's quickly steering the woman to another car waiting just behind Snow's, where he practically throws her into the back seat. A camera crew moves in on us, with a Capitol reporter frantically shoving a microphone into Peeta's face, hoping to get some explanation for the change in plans. She looks to me as well, but I only shrug and shake my head in bewilderment. Whatever Peeta's planning, I had no knowledge of it.

"Peeta! Peeta Mellark!" she shouts, hoping to catch him before he gets in the car. "Care to tell Panem why you've had a change of heart in killing Snow?"

He whips around and sends his practiced Capitol smile into the camera, his face lighting the dozens of screens around the Circle. I think I'm the only one who catches the craftiness behind it. "Oh I'm gonna kill him, alright," he says reassuringly. "I'm just going to do it _my_ way."

Without further explanation, he slides into the back seat of the waiting car, leaving me looking confused and awkward in front of the cameras. After an extended moment of a litany of questions from the reporter, Peeta's annoyed voice carries out to me from inside the car, " _Are you coming?_ "

I very mechanically slide in beside him, and a guard swiftly shuts the door behind me as the cars lurch into motion. The cries of the crowd are muted through the windows, but it's still deafening. I imagine they can be heard all the way in District Two. I look questioningly to Peeta, but he seems to be oblivious to my presence now, his eyes focused straight ahead. The woman he selected from the row of detainees is hunched over in her seat, trying desperately to shrink as far away from him as possible. I half expect her to fling the door open and throw herself out of the moving vehicle, she looks so terrified.

We soon come to a stop at a nondescript building near our old Training Center, and I'm surprised that the few times I've been here, I never noticed it. A valet opens the door for me, and I reluctantly step out as Snow is marched into the building. Is he actually struggling against his guards? He seems to almost be dragging his heels into the ground as he's led inside, and he must know what's about to happen to him and that it will be horrible, because I've never in my life seen Snow afraid. I've never seen him show any emotion other than cunning and condescension, but there's no mistaking it, Snow is _horrified_. I turn to Peeta as he rises out of the car, and he's staring past me at the building with a mixture of emotions registering on his face, somewhere between trepidation and fury. I can tell he's been here before, and very slowly, things begin to fall into place and my mind starts piecing together the reality that I don't want to accept. I can't think about it. I won't. Peeta isn't about to do what my mind refuses to let me realize.

A guard retrieves the woman from the car and I feel Peeta's hand pressing into the small of my back, steering me toward the building. He isn't exactly forceful, but the gesture is firm enough that I wouldn't be able to resist if I wanted to. I let myself be guided inside, and there's something about the nondescript sterility of the white corridors and rows of steel doors with tiny, wire-reinforced glass windows that makes my stomach lurch. I think I might be sick. There is something so very, very not right about this place. A darkness lingering over it that suggests horrible things happen here.

We're led into the first door we encounter, and I have to clamp a hand over my mouth as I enter, swallowing hard to keep myself from vomiting. There are stars at the edges of my vision, and I brace a shaking hand against the wall to keep from collapsing. There's a stainless steel table in the center of the room with restraints where hands and feet would go. Various medical trays are lined with tools and implements whose uses I'd never be able to fathom, but they look horrific. The room is so cold I'm surprised I can't see my breath, and then I realize I'm not breathing at all. Despite the immaculate cleanliness of the room now, it isn't difficult to imagine it splattered with blood and mangled body parts.

"Peeta," I gasp, but he doesn't indicate that he hears me.

"Restrain him," he commands, nodding toward the table.

The guards quickly comply, then leave the room. Peeta directs a pointed glare at the woman, who I quickly realize is a medic of some sort, because she hastens to the task of hooking Snow up to an IV. There is unmistakable terror in Snow's eyes now, and it's so uncharacteristic on him that he almost looks like a completely different person. He's visibly shaking, and his eyes are wide and locked on Peeta, who very slowly circles around the table, a detached look in his eyes as he approaches one of the carts bearing various torture devices. He lightly runs his hand over them, and the way his fingers touch the implements is almost disturbingly affectionate. He makes no effort to hide the fact that he's going to enjoy every second of what he's about to do.

"Sterling had this book that I was quite fond of," Peeta begins quietly, keeping his eyes on the surgical tools laid out before him. "I read it several times. It was about this scientist who created a monster, but ultimately ended up regretting it. Everyone feared this monster, when really he only ever wanted companionship. The monster felt that as a living being, he was entitled to happiness. So the scientist set out to create for him a companion, but ended up killing her. The whole story is about this conflict between monster and creator...and the creator's desire to kill his creation. I often wondered why this story resonated so deeply with me. ...But I think that's quite obvious now, isn't it?" Peeta finally looks up from the tray of tools, fixing his eyes on Snow for the first time since we arrived here.

"I know the story, Mr. Mellark," Snow says hoarsely.

Peeta smiles a little, and surprisingly, it doesn't hold the threat of a sneer. "So then you know how it ends," he says softly. "You know that the creator never kills the monster."

A moment of some indescribable emotion passes between them. Acceptance and defeat on Snow's part. Victory on Peeta's. I'm still lost in a haze of confusion. I don't know this book they speak of. I'm terrified and sick with anticipation for what is about to happen, but I'm too captivated by Peeta's actions that I find myself rooted to the spot.

"You know, you once told me that you were rather proud of what you created," Peeta continues, leaning over Snow and gazing down at him with smug condescension. "Does that still hold true? Or are you regretting everything you've done to lead up to this moment?"

"You know you don't have to do this," Snow says, desperation evident in his voice. "This isn't you. You wouldn't do this."

"Ohhhhhhh, Coriolanus," Peeta seethes. "But it is...and I would. _You_ saw to that." Peeta narrows his eyes. "And pleading, really? Desperation is a rather unbecoming color on you." He leans in closer to Snow so that their noses are inches apart, forcing Snow to look into his eyes as he drops his voice to a malicious whisper. "You have destroyed...everything I have ever loved. _Fuck you_."

Peeta straightens and finally turns to me, fixing me with the softest expression he can manage, but his eyes are still cold and fathomless. "I understand if you don't wish to be present for this," he says, his voice neutral and overly formal.

This is it. This is my cue to flee the room, to go find some closet to hide in so I can panic and cry and wonder where the Peeta I once knew has gone. But I don't. Something snaps within me, and whatever fear or reticence I felt before is completely gone, replaced by the vengeance that has driven me thus far. What all have I lost because of Snow? I think of all the horrific things that might have happened to Peeta in this very room, and any vestiges of sympathy or mercy I might have begun to feel for Snow dissolve in an instant. That bastard deserves everything he is about to get. I take a couple of uneasy steps toward a chair against the wall and firmly seat myself in it. Peeta and I lock eyes for an instant, and then he nods once and turns back to the table, peering down at Snow once more, a bit of a satisfied smile curling his lips.

"Shall we begin?" he says quietly.

In another time, another world, a life before Prim getting reaped, I might have found Peeta's actions reprehensible. But too much has happened since then, and any shred of charity or humanity in me died with Prim, and with the old Peeta. It takes eighteen hours of relentless torture before the medic can no longer keep Snow alive, and his aged, decrepit body succumbs to the damage wreaked upon it. And I sit stoically through every second of it, watching it all in a detached reverie, silently hating myself for enjoying it so much. It's clear that Peeta knows what he's doing. He's probably fantasized about this for months. He must have learned some techniques from his own time being tortured, because he thinks to do things I never would have imagined doing to a person. And Snow screams until he no longer has a voice, which happens right around the moment Peeta cuts out his tongue. In the end, Snow doesn't even resemble a human being anymore. He's just a conglomeration of mangled parts.

After the medic apprehensively informs Peeta that she can do nothing to revive Snow and that's he's officially dead, Peeta stares down at Snow's shredded corpse in a catatonic daze for an unnervingly long moment. Then, very slowly, as if awakening from a very long sleep, he goes to the opposite wall and raises his bloodied fingers to the white tiles. His movements are slow and deliberate, and he's seemingly hypnotized, sketching an image with Snow's blood. When he finally steps away, I gasp at the figure he's drawn there.

It's a mockingjay.

He wipes his bloodied hands on his already bloodstained clothes, then goes to the door and opens it to hordes of camera crews waiting in the hallways, desperate to catch the first glimpse of whatever has transpired over the past day. He motions the nearest reporter in, and she immediately doubles over and rushes to a nearby sink to vomit profusely upon seeing the inside of the room. Peeta then looks to the cameraman accompanying her, gesturing for him to zoom in closer.

"I want everyone in Panem today to reflect upon the events that have transpired over the past seventy-five years," Peeta says gravely, his most solemn expression directed straight into the camera. "And to any potential leaders who might be prone to corruption - take a good look at what will happen to you if you hurt the wrong people." He sweeps his arm back, indicating Snow's mangled body. "Snow is dead. You are all free now."

Without another word, he steps around the cameraman and pushes through the wall of reporters, most of which are looking mildly green in the face. I stare blankly at the cameraman as he moves in closer to capture footage of Snow's corpse, and then turns to the wall to get a clear image of the mockingjay painted in his blood. Then I'm startled into action, realizing I want to be as far away from this room as possible, and I hurry out the door after Peeta, practically knocking down some of the camera crews in my wake. Our car is still waiting outside, and I slide into the back seat next to Peeta, where we ride back to the mansion in silence.

To my surprise, my mother and Mr. Mellark are at the mansion waiting for us. Peeta emerges from the back of the car before me and immediately stops, a choked gasp dying in his throat when he sees his father. He quickly turns around, squeezing his eyes shut as he whispers to himself, " _Not real_."

My heart skips a beat when I realize that at some point, I probably should have told Peeta that his father was still alive. But considering everything else that was happening and the bigger priorities at the time, there really wouldn't have been an appropriate time to tell him. "Peeta," I say gently. "I'm so sorry. I didn't have a chance to tell you..."

His eyes snap open and there's bewilderment and hope and is that the old Peeta shining through as he looks at me? I don't have time to tell because he's immediately whipping back around, taking a tentative step toward his father, whose expression is one of sympathy and wistfulness and hope. If Mr. Mellark is horrified at the fact that his son is covered in blood, he doesn't show it in the least. All I see is the happiness of a man being reunited with his son.

Peeta takes another tentative step toward his father. "...Dad?" he says, his voice tinged with doubt. Another step. Then another, until he's walking swiftly up to his father, who he roughly embraces, and the moment seems to go on forever. But it's been over a day since either of us has slept, and soon exhaustion overwhelms us both, cutting the moment short.

Peeta dazedly wanders off on his own somewhere, disappearing down one of the darkened corridors of the mansion in search of a shower. I retire to my own room, where I sink into a deep bathtub to hopefully wash away the feeling of dread and hollowness left in me from that place. The water is thankfully still hot even though the power has gone off again for the evening, and only when the water is nearly cold do I finally emerge. I'm too wired to sleep, even though I'm exhausted. I desperately want company, but there's no one to be found, the corridors empty and most of the doors I try are locked. The chill finally gets to me, and I fling myself into the first unlocked room I find, finding my way to the bed in the darkness and throwing myself into it, where I immediately fall asleep.

I don't know how long I'm out, but it's still dark when I awake, the room dimly alight with the orange glow of a fresh fire in the hearth. A steward must have come in to light it recently. I'm enveloped in a most pleasant warmth, and I feel so peaceful and uncharacteristically safe that I don't want to fully wake quite yet. Something urgent nags at the back of my mind, something that tells me something isn't quite right, but I'm so relaxed at the feeling of warmth and the gentle breathing ghosting across the back of my neck that -

 _I'm not alone_.

I jerk awake and turn over, where I see Peeta sleeping next to me in the dim light of the fire, his arm encircling my waist. My heart races as I make the panicked realization that I must have accidentally stumbled into his room in my desperation to escape the cold of the corridors and fallen into bed next to him in the darkness. I'm just beginning to ease away from him and out of the bed when I see his eyes open halfway, and a little smile plays on his lips before his eyes close again, his arm gently pulling me back toward him. I instinctively resist, as it's become habit now, but I'm so confused and conflicted that I freeze, unsure of what to do. Then Peeta's eyes snap open again, and he jolts up from the pillow with a look of disbelief and trepidation. We stare at one another in tentative silence, both of us rigid and not daring to move a muscle. Very slowly, he reaches two trembling fingers out to me, which he quickly presses to my lips before jerking his hand away as though I'd burned him.

"We won," he breathes. "Real or not real?"

I swallow hard, unable to respond at first because my voice won't work. "Real," I say.

There's another extended, tense silence of uncertainty, and then he's roughly gathering me up into his arms, embracing me so tightly that for a moment I can barely breathe, but his arms relax around me a little and I immediately return the embrace. His hands are stroking my hair, his lips brushing against my cheekbone and temple, and his arms are strong and comforting and _oh_ , so warm. I feel like I've been cold this whole time without his warmth. I never thought I'd feel this warmth again. I'd consigned to never see the old Peeta ever again.

He must feel my apprehension and doubt, because he pulls back and fixes me with an expression of deep concern, a little crease forming in the center of his brow. This is nothing but the old Peeta staring back at me. I see not even a trace of the mutt that tried to kill me. There's just a nurturing, charitable warmth staring back at me in the darkness. "Katniss?" he says tentatively.

I don't even attempt to hold back the few tears that escape me, and he instinctively brushes them away from my cheek with his thumb. "Is it really you?" I whisper.

A pained expression flickers across his face, and I immediately hate myself for asking it because all I see in his eyes is guilt and sadness. He averts his gaze and gives me a sad smile. "Yeah. It's really me," he says. He quickly looks back up at me, and his expression is apologetic. "I...understand if you're uncomfortable with me. After...everything." He averts his eyes again. "I'll go sleep somewhere else if that's what you want."

"No," I answer quickly, my hand flying out to his arm. "Stay with me."

The sadness and guilt in his expression ebbs a little, and there's nothing but genuine joy in his smile now. He pulls me back against him and tucks the blankets around us, and just before I drift back to sleep, I hear his whispered response -

" _Always_."


	13. Chapter 13 (Part One)

**A/N: Apparently FF has a shorter character limit for chapter titles than AO3, which really screws up my process of naming the chapters here. All of the chapters in this story are named after a lyric from the KMFDM song _Rebels in Kontrol_ , and this chapter is supposed to be titled _Walk Through the World with a Bullet-Proof Vest_ , but FF sucks so I'm forced to keep it with a generic chapter title. Lame.**

 **Also, this chapter is going to be split up into two parts because it's...really long. Thank you everyone for reading and commenting!**

* * *

 _.Peeta._

I'm awakened by the crash of thunder, the room cast in a dark grey glow from the storm clouds rolling in over the mountains. We're on the precipice of seasons where it's not quite cold enough for snow, so we're assaulted with brisk, freezing rain instead. The fire in the hearth has died down, but the warmth still lingers, and Katniss is still wedged against me under the covers, her head resting on my shoulder. Her skin is soft and pleasant, and the warmth from the rich bedding is a delightful reprieve from the cold, starchy bed of the medical ward where I recovered from my injuries. A heavy rain begins drumming against the rooftop and spattering the windows, thunder echoing off of the mountains in the distance, and there's something oddly peaceful about it. I turn my head toward Katniss and press my lips to the top of her head, inhaling the floral scent of her hair and closing my eyes against the flood of memories that come rushing back.

All of the things I said to her. All of the things I did. All of the promises I broke. Of the uncertainty registering on her face last night as she'd realized whose bed she accidentally ended up in, the way she recoiled from my touch and stiffened against my embrace. Exhaustion and cold eventually won her over and she fell asleep next to me, but there's no mistaking that she fears me now. _Fear_. Of all the things I was afraid of her feeling toward me, that one was the last. Confusion, apprehension, suspicion, even indifference - I could accept those. But never fear. I never could have anticipated doing any of the things I did that would make her fear me. The reality of it is unbearable, causing my chest to ache with regret and self-loathing. I can't even look at her without recognizing my deepest shame. For propriety's sake, I probably should have left and slept somewhere else. After everything, it's a little too soon to be jumping into bed together, but we've both been through so much, and come so far, I couldn't gather up the strength to leave. If only she knew half of the things I've done in the weeks we've been apart. I don't think she'd like the person I am now, and the thought of that possibility causes a deep, lingering terror to replace the emptiness left by my shame.

I gently extract her from my shoulder and lay her against the pillows, taking extra care not to wake her, and leave the comforting warmth of the bed to stand at the window. It's difficult to see anything through the grey haze of the storm, but I can make out the skyline and the mountains in the distance. A car splashes through a puddle on the street below. A person sprints through the rain, pulling their jacket over their head in the downpour. Hard to tell there was a war here. Progress on reparations in the city has been surprisingly efficient, and the latest assault on the Capitol was virtually clean, with minimal casualties. It's almost perverse how normal everything looks. A part of me wishes there were visible spoils from the efforts we took to free the nation. A gratifying scar left for the pain we endured.

I press my forehead against the cold glass, wishing I knew the first thing to say to Katniss. An apology would seem too trite. And much too trivial, considering everything. That I love her? She either wouldn't believe me or already knows. And at some point she's going to have to know of the part I played in the war here in the Capitol, and the things I've done since the last time we were together. She's going to ask awkward questions, and I'll have to answer them truthfully. I have no desire to kill her. I don't hallucinate a fanged monster when I look at her. I don't loathe her or distrust her. I still love her. But the cynicism, the pragmatism, the shrewdness of the mutt version of myself is still there, and will forever be a part of me. That will never go away, and I can't be sure how she'll react to it. My revenge felt too good, too gratifying. I'll never be able to let that go. Perhaps it had nothing to do with being tortured and hijacked. Maybe I was always meant to be like this, and it was just a result of growing older and seeing more of the world. I am as war-torn as she is.

My breath against the window has created a small patch of fog on the glass, and I reach up to absently draw something in it with the tip of my finger. When I finally focus my eyes, I see that it's a simplistic outline of a bird, a flower held firmly in its long, tapered beak. I stare at it blankly until it fades with the dissipating fog, and I'm staring back out at the rain again.

Katniss' shrill gasp suddenly startles me out of my daze, and for a moment I think she's had another nightmare. "The hanging tree? _Really?_ " she says, and there's a note of horror and offense in her voice.

My eyes shift to her reflection in the window, and I see her staring at my back in mild disbelief. Of course, she's talking about my back piece, the latest tattoo I've acquired that spans from my shoulder blades to the small of my back. It isn't quite finished yet, with some areas still needing color and shading, but it's recognizable enough. I can only imagine that bearing this across my back is some horrible affront, and I immediately regret not putting on a shirt the moment I woke up to her in my bed. All things considered, I don't think she'd be quite ready to see it.

"Partially the lightning tree from the arena as well," I say apologetically. "It's symbolic. A hybrid of both." As if that's supposed to explain anything, or make it any less horrific to her.

"But...why?"

I give her a small smile and slowly approach her, deliberately making my movements as nonthreatening and obvious as possible as I come to sit on the side of the bed. "Notice that the noose is _empty_ ," I add.

This actually seems to put her at ease, and I see an unmistakable smile on her lips as she meets my eyes, then she quickly looks away, just like I did all those years when we were in school. My smile fades, the dread and concern welling up in my chest and somehow exacerbating the pain in my ribs. "You don't like the tattoos," I say softly.

She abruptly looks up, her cheeks turning a light pink as her mouth opens in surprise. "No - I mean, yes, I do like them!" she says quickly. "I do. Really. You just...have so many of them. It's a profound change, is all."

I let out a small huff of amusement and nod, my eyes dropping to my lap. "I'm a recovering addict, Katniss. They say it's easier to replace one addiction with another, healthier one. Getting inked is my own weird version of therapy, I guess."

Then another thought occurs to me, the shadow of shame creeping up my throat as a recent memory points an accusatory finger from the recesses of my subconscious. "Listen, Katniss, speaking of addiction..." I rub my face in my hands to hide the slight blush of regret that warms my face. "I'm sorry for how I reacted earlier, in the rose garden. It's not my place or my business to tell you what to do with your body. I'm hardly in any position to judge you for turning to narcotics for comfort. But...for what it's worth..." I look back up at her, fixing her with my sincerest gaze. "...I'd _highly_ advise against it. Addiction is no picnic. I don't...I don't think I'd have the fortitude to watch that happen to you."

Her eyes find mine again, and a smile tugs at her lips. I think she appreciates my sincerity, at least. Perhaps this is the way to mend all of our wounds. Instead of vague apologies, own up for the specific offenses. Heal the fresh wounds first. It's a start. Not just in getting her to trust me again, but to overcome my embarrassment at the things I've done to her, and at letting Snow break me.

Something profound and unspoken passes between us, and then Katniss tentatively reaches forward, lightly pushing on my shoulder in silent request for me to turn around so she can better inspect my back piece. I shift a little and turn my back to her, feeling her small, cool fingertips probing the muscles of my shoulders, my spine, tracing the branches and the bolts of lightning, and finally the noose hanging from the lowest limb.

"Did it hurt?" she asks.

"A little. Some areas are worse than others, especially since I sat for several hours straight for this one until I started twitching...but it's the pain that kept me in check. The pain is part of the therapy. It's a good way to let out pent-up aggression and angst, I guess. I can't really explain it."

"Like when you would drive your handcuffs into the cuts in your wrists that time," she says.

I nod. "Yes. It's just like that." I turn back around, ducking my head to force her to look at me. "You really like the tattoos?" I ask.

There's the sheepish smile again. The smattering of pink across her cheeks. "Yeah. I really like them. It's a good look for you. It's actually kind of...sexy. It shows commitment and endurance. I like those things. They're safe things."

I can't help my smile, and without thinking, I reach up to brush her hair back from her face, but she instantly recoils before I can even touch her. I pause in mid-gesture, and I bite my lip and drop my hand to my side, hoping that the hurt and guilt aren't registering in my expression but knowing they are anyway. Of course I knew she'd react like this. She has every reason to. And it makes me feel horrible for conditioning her to cringe away from me. There are so many things I could have done differently. So many things I should have changed.

Her brows come together and tears spring to her eyes, and she swiftly reaches out to grab my hand, clearly humiliated by her own reaction. "No, Peeta, please," she pleads, and her voice is damp with oncoming tears. "I don't know why I did that - "

"It's a conditioned response," I answer grimly. "Kind of like how I reacted to you after I'd been hijacked. Only you have an actual reason to react that way, because I actually _did_ hurt you."

"Peeta, no..." she says, and she lifts my hand to her face and rests my palm against her cheek, just like that time in her bedroom when she'd shyly asked me to stay, when her head was clouded by sleep syrup and pain. "It wasn't you," she whispers. "That wasn't you doing those things. You couldn't help it."

I give her what's meant to be a reassuring smile, but I know my eyes still reflect the sadness and pain I'm feeling over the things I've done. "Could I have, though?" I ask quietly. I think I'm asking myself more than her. "I keep thinking, if only I'd been stronger, if only I fought harder..."

"Peeta, _don't_ ," she commands, and her tone is almost aggressive. "You were _tortured_. You were reprogrammed by Snow, there was nothing you could have done..." Something registers on her face and she trails off, her eyes becoming very clear as she focuses them on mine. "But you're going to end up punishing yourself for it anyway, aren't you?"

A genuinely amused laugh escapes me, and there's something remarkably endearing about how well she knows me. "I'm that predictable, am I?" I look down again. "The truth is, Katniss...I said and did a lot of reprehensible things to you. I'll never be able to take that back. But I intend to spend the rest of my life making up for it."

"Even if I say you don't have to?"

I shake my head. "Even then. You're not the one living with the guilt." I look back up at her, and my heart sinks as I realize how difficult things are going to be for us now. There's an extended silence as I inspect her face, the hurt and longing in her eyes, the uncertainty registering in her expression. "Listen, Katniss..." I say after a long moment, and a shadow passes over her face at the dejected tone of my voice. "...A lot of things have happened. We've both been through a lot, and we've been apart a long time. It's just...sometimes when two people...when they're apart for an extended period of time, and they grow and mature independently of one another, it's...different. When they come back together. We're not the same people we were before..."

"What are you saying?" she whispers, and though she's clearly trying to hold her tears back, one betrays her and slides down her cheek.

"Just that it might be different, is all. It's not going to be as easy as picking up where we left off...and we weren't even in a healthy place _then_. I'm a different person than the one you met on that stage at the reaping. You might not like me now. We might not...be right for each other anymore. And that's okay."

"So you just want to give up?" she says, and her voice is so small and filled with pain that I feel horrible for not expressing myself properly.

"No, Katniss, of course not," I breathe as I instinctively hold out my arms, and to my surprise, she falls straight into them, her arms locking around my back as though she's afraid I'll disappear any minute. I feel the wetness of her tears against my shoulder, where she hides her face so that I won't be able to see her cry. Her sniffles gradually melt into uncontrollable weeping, made worse by the fact that she tries to hold it in. I just stroke her hair as I mutter reassurances against her ear and occasionally knead her back, but I'm so apprehensive of any sort of affection with her because the last thing I want is for her to feel threatened or overpowered. "Just let it out," I whisper as she makes a choked gasping sound in an attempt to stifle her sobs. "It's just you and me here, no one's judging you. Just let it all out."

I get the impression this is something she's needed to do for a long time but felt she couldn't, so I just hold her and let her weep. The events of the past couple of weeks were significantly traumatic for us both, and now that we finally get a moment to breathe, the peace feels a little unreal. Suspicious. Unfamiliar. Snow is dead. Coin is dead. We're alive. We're back together. On paper, it sounds so idyllic. If only it were that easy.

I keep thinking about the history texts Sterling had, the ones you don't find in the districts, and the personal accounts of soldiers coming back from wars in nations on the other side of the ocean back before Panem even existed, to spouses who had fallen out of love with them in the months they'd been gone. The traumatized, damaged minds too haunted by war to ever be able to maintain a healthy relationship, demons that came back with them that broke marriages and severed friendships. I'd been prepared for the possibility that whatever it was we had before might not be there when we came back together. And the last thing I'd wish on her is for her to have to pretend when she wasn't really into it, especially when neither of us has any obligation to anyone anymore, least of all a nation hanging on every nuance of our romance, all of the sponsors and fans who expected us to be together forever.

I feel her sag against me and I know she's physically and emotionally drained, so I delicately maneuver her back down against the pillows. In a haze of lethargy, she reaches out for me as though she's afraid I'll leave, but I reclaim my place beside her and let her fall back into my embrace under the covers, where she immediately falls asleep on my chest. It's reassuring that at least _this_ still feels good. I feel the same swell of warmth and affection in my chest when I hold her now as I did that very first time in the cave in the arena. And somehow, though I can't fathom why, she still seems to cherish my presence. It's a start. That may change when she begins to realize how truly fucked up I am now. How forever broken I'll be over Crispin and Sterling's deaths.

How she doesn't know that last night, after I'd disappeared for the evening, simultaneously confused and relieved at the fact that my father somehow miraculously survived, I'd found myself in the part of the mansion where the bodies of Snow's victims were kept before they were sent to the incinerator. I don't know how I ended up there. I don't even remember blindly wandering around before stumbling upon it. I'm not sure which side of me I was in that moment - and perhaps I was neither - just a hollow vessel where a human should be while I tried to find myself again, with a void where memory should have been. But I'd finally come back to myself when I realized I was in a very cold room, a storage locker for corpses awaiting disposal, my breath coming in small clouds of vapor in front of my face as I tentatively approached a person-shaped object obscured by a white sheet on a steel table. With surprisingly steady fingers, I pulled the sheet back, where Coin's lifeless eyes stared up at me.

There were bodies on the other tables too, and I went to each one, pulling back the sheets to see their faces. To look into the faces of the people whose deaths I at least partially caused. Not because I felt remorse - never remorse, this was all necessary - but because I wanted to hold myself accountable. I firmly believe that one should never even consider killing another person unless they're completely willing to stare down into the face of the corpse - something Snow, ironically, could never find the courage to do. It's an ideal I developed in the arena from that very first, unfortunate kill - the girl from District 8 - and one I will uphold until the day I die. And in that freezer, I went to each table, closely inspecting the faces so that I'd remember them. There was Snow's war secretary. The officials that had been lined up in the City Circle for the execution, who were later taken out by firing squad, save for the woman I promised immunity. And to my dismayed surprise, Tigris, the stylist-turned-shopkeeper. Even the fucking cat woman didn't survive. She must have been captured when they got Crispin. I find it simultaneously disheartening and gratifying that Snow would have been among these bodies had I left something more for them to scrape off of that table other than meat and tubes.

And then I found Sterling. And next to her, Crispin. I'd knocked over a tray of surgical instruments in my frantic stumble backwards, surprised that the loud clatter of steel against concrete hadn't drawn anyone down to investigate. And then I'd sunken down to the floor, hand clamped tightly over my mouth as I silently panicked for what might have been hours. I'd seen plenty of dead bodies. Too many of them by my hand. But nothing can ever prepare a person to see the waxen corpse of someone they love. But I'd finally pulled myself to my feet, forcing myself to look into the faces of the people I killed. _I_ killed them. Because I loved them. They're dead because of me.

And in my moment of desperate panic, for whatever reason, I remembered something Sterling said to me once in passing. _That can be anyone wearing my face_. I don't know why it suddenly occurred to me in that moment. Perhaps it was my desperate mind clinging for any vestige of hope. "It isn't her," I said under my breath. Capitolites have been known to pay exorbitant sums of money to have cosmetic alterations done to look like their favorite celebrity. _Of course_ Sterling would have a lookalike to fake her death. Frantic, feral, completely driven by this one small ray of hope, I tore the freezer room apart for a UV light, wrenching drawers open and upsetting neatly-arranged embalming utensils until I finally found one. Shining the light over her collarbone, my heart sank as the mockingjay tattooed there revealed itself in a pale blue glow. But there were plenty of rebels who had it, surely the body double faking her death would have it as well? Holding my breath, I gingerly turned the body over, completely oblivious to how irrational and improper I was being.

I'd hoped for that corpse's back to be bare. But it wasn't. A quick sweep of the UV light over her skin revealed the same intricate tattoos I'd seen on her in the club. It was most definitely Sterling. In a fit of rage, I flung the UV light across the room, shattering the glass of a cabinet with the impact, then violently swept utensils and vials off of tables, trashing the room and not caring about the sting of formaldehyde in my nostrils, or the tingling of numbness in my fingertips from the chemical preservatives. I felt stupid for allowing myself to feel any semblance of hope when I should have known better. When there was nothing left to break, I tearfully said my goodbyes to Sterling and Crispin, finally allowing myself to mourn their loss now that there wasn't anyone around to see how much I let Snow break me. On my way out, I passed Coin's body again. The hollow ache still gnawed at my heart, an anger not satiated, and in a moment of impulsiveness, I hoisted the corpse over my shoulder, marched it all the way across the grounds, and deposited it into the incinerator myself.

Because I don't like loose ends. And I didn't want any possibility of a mistake that the bitch was dead. And perhaps... _just perhaps_...I was a little bitter at the fact that Snow couldn't have lasted longer. A few hours of torture compared to the weeks I got...I figure he got off light.

And it's thoughts like these that are exactly what I'm afraid of Katniss knowing about me. If she knew the half of what lingered in the darkest recesses of my mind, she'd never forgive me.

Covered in blood and embalming chemicals and fuck knows what else, I mechanically found my way back to my room and spent over an hour under the stream of the shower, choosing the most fragrant cycle I could find to scrub away the filth of my revenge. It took considerable effort to dig the caked blood from beneath my fingernails, and to massage the feeling back into my numbed fingers underneath the tepid water. I'd stared at the reddish-brown torrent of old blood rushing down the drain, holding my breath as I waited for the flashback it would most certainly trigger, though one never came. Protected by the shield of indifference.

It's the loud clap of thunder that startles Katniss out of sleep next to me, jolting me back to the present. She frantically thrashes out, but I catch one of her wrists and mumble a few soothing reassurances to coax her back to reality. It takes a moment for the waking world to register, but once her eyes focus on me, she slams into me with incredible force, locking her arms tight around me so that a searing pain rips through my side, my wound already slightly aggravated from having hauled Coin's body across the grounds.

" _Hngf_ ," I grunt, clenching my teeth and trying my best to swallow the cry of agony that nearly escapes me. I gently position Katniss so that she's not locked so tightly around me, then flash her a quick smile. "Be gentle with me, I'm still a little fragile," I say breathlessly, my eyes beginning to water.

A look of horror crosses her face as she realizes her error, and she scrambles away from me to the other side of the bed, where she hides her face in the pillow and mutters muffled apologies to me. I tentatively extend my hand out to her beneath the covers, very lightly running my fingers up her arm. It takes a minute of soft coaxing, but she eventually resurfaces, one eye peering at me from above the pillow.

"I'd ask if you slept alright, but I think that much is obvious," I say. She doesn't say anything. "Are you warm enough?" I ask after a moment of tense silence. In perfect response to my question, she stiffens as though suppressing a shiver, and I tug her back toward me. "It's alright. Really. Come here."

She reluctantly scoots back over to me, gingerly settling next to me as though the slightest movement might break me. I let out a small chuckle and tuck her against my chest, and she instantly nuzzles at my neck, warming her nose in my collarbone. "I thought you were dead," she mumbles.

"Unfortunately, the nightmares will never go away," I say grimly, idly stroking her back.

"No, I mean...before," she says, looking up at me. "When that bullet went through you, I thought...that was it. It's over. I never thought..." Her voice wavers as she chokes on the threat of tears again, and her nose buries itself back in my collarbone.

I make a dismissive sound in the back of my throat, reminiscing about all the times I almost died. _Almost_. "Katniss...I was assaulted nearly everyday of my adolescent life. I had a septic injury for days. I hit a force field that stopped my heart. I was tortured for weeks. I think we've established by now that it's going to take a lot more than a bullet to take me out. That would just be insulting."

She snorts with suppressed laughter, and very lightly, she rests her hand over the delicate, fresh scar tissue on my ribcage. "I'm glad it didn't," she whispers, and I can just barely see the ghost of a smile on her lips.

"So how are you feeling? Better?" I ask, quickly changing to a lighter subject.

She nods. "Yeah, a little, actually." She seems genuinely surprised by this.

"Sometimes you just need a good cry. An emotional purge, of sorts. You almost always end up feeling much better afterward."

"What did you mean earlier?" she asks abruptly. "That I might not like who you are now?"

"Katniss..." I say cautiously. This is the very conversation I wanted to avoid, and the last thing I want is for her to end up in tears again. She's not giving it up though, and I feel myself buckling under that intense grey gaze, that probing scrutiny that I always felt would be able to see right through me whenever I'd meet her eyes in school. I inhale slowly, savoring the scent of her hair, then let out a measured sigh before answering. Eventually we would have had this conversation anyway. We might as well do it now.

"You know why I did it, don't you?" I say finally, and my voice is deathly quiet. "Why I tortured Snow?"

Her brows come together a little, forming a little crease between them. "Because he had it done to you," she answers, but there's an edge of doubt in her voice.

I nod once, but I know she can tell by my expression that there's more to it than that. "Something like that." I sigh again, closing my eyes and allowing a short silence to pass before speaking again. I don't really feel compelled to justify what I did, because it just felt right. But Katniss would always wonder, always expect an explanation, and I'm not sure my notorious ability of gracefully arranging words into perspective would ever be efficient enough for this. It's too emotional, too divine to be encompassed in the crudeness and banality of spoken language.

"Mutt Peeta was a prick on his best days," I say finally. "When you and I both survived, and were back together again...I couldn't risk him coming out again. I couldn't risk endangering you again. I had to bury him. Torturing Snow was my own version of closure. Snow...he would never be so kind as to grant me the mercy of death. He was very adamant about that fact. I was consistently broken and strung back together again in an endless cycle for his entertainment. The Peeta you knew before would have balked at the prospect of revenge...he would have been much nobler about it. But now? I couldn't in good conscience reward Snow with the luxury of a quick and merciful death. And when Snow finally died...so did the other guy. I laid him to rest when Snow took his final breath."

Even though my eyes are closed, I can still feel that probing gaze on me. She knows there's more. I'm afraid to admit the worst part of it to her.

I open my eyes and force myself to meet her gaze again. " _And I regret nothing_ ," I finish.

She's silent for a very long time, her eyes shifting slightly as she searches my expression. Perhaps she's searching for the old me, the one she shook hands with before the Games. What would he feel, right now? I try to think of how I might have reacted back then, at the prospect of having enjoyed torturing someone. And I can't. I can't even remotely fathom how I might have felt about it. That innocence, that emotional charity has been gone for some time. Just like when we were in school, I have the strong instinct to quickly glance away from her gaze, but I won't do it. I can't. I need her to know that I'm a monster now. I need her to see it.

"No remorse whatsoever?" she asks finally, and her voice is barely a whisper.

I shake my head, keeping my eyes locked steadily on hers. "None."

Her eyes shift to a spot just over my shoulder, finally breaking the gaze. "...And you thought I'd disapprove."

"Don't you?" I ask, my eyes still trained on her.

She shakes her head. "Peeta..." she says, and there's a note of impatience in her voice. "You're treating me like a porcelain doll." She rolls her eyes suddenly, then fixes them back on me. "I guess I've kind of been acting like one. But neither of us needs to pretend not to know that my hatred for Snow was so strong that I really have no sympathies for him. In the end, he really did end up perpetuating all of his own problems. He should have seen it coming. He should have made better choices. I can't sympathize with him. ...You really thought I'd end up hating you?"

"It only would have been fair," I say softly. "After all, for a while there, it seemed I hated you. I'm a much different person from the one you met on that stage at the reaping. No one would have blamed you for writing me off forever."

"Yeah, well, I didn't," she says brusquely. She seems insulted that I would have even expected that from her. "And to be fair, I'm a much different person from the one who volunteered for Prim. We've both changed. Honestly, Peeta...we're both so fucked up at this point, we're perfect for each other. It isn't like there's anyone else out there who would know what to do with either of us. It probably makes us horrible people that we found it so gratifying to kill people just to get even."

I shake my head, thinking it over for a moment. "No, I don't think it does, actually." She raises her head from my shoulder and fixes me with a perplexed expression, and I glance at her out of the corner of my eye before quickly looking away again. "Never innocent people, of course. But in the arena, when everyone's trying to kill you and you're just trying to survive...and later, the people who forced us into that situation in the first place - it's not monstrous or vile to feel some gratification from killing them. It's human. And I think forgiveness is overrated. We're conditioned to believe that forgiveness makes you the better, nobler person, but I think that's bullshit. Coin and Snow...they never would have deserved our forgiveness or our mercy. Refusing those things to the reprehensible people who exploit and oppress you is the first step in declaring that you refuse to be a victim any longer. No one who intentionally harms you is owed any of your charity. All that does is reinforce the bad habits of bad people, and they don't deserve that. They and others who might be like them need to learn that there are consequences to their actions. Forgiveness makes that impossible. So...fuck them."

"Fuck them," she repeats with a smile. She lays her head back down on my shoulder and closes her eyes. "You sacrificed so much to save me. Even when you weren't yourself. I don't think I could ever begin to deserve you."

This elicits a derisive snort and a roll of my eyes. "Deserve," I say, spitting the word out as though it leaves an unpleasant taste in my mouth. "Relationships aren't an incentives and rewards program, there is no _deserve_. For fuck's sake, Katniss - "

"No, I should have been more receptive," she argues. "I shouldn't have been so distrustful. I shouldn't have been so indifferent toward you - "

"Katniss, stop. Like you said before, we were strangers. We were _strangers_ , Katniss. And then when Snow hijacked my memories, he turned me into the very type of guy I loathe - entitled, bitter, resentful toward rejection. The things I said, the way I acted when I was strapped to that bed in Thirteen when you first came in to see me...like you owed me something for choices _I_ made. I hate that. I hate when guys act like they're owed affection or romantic love because of the things they do for a girl. And nothing you did would have changed anything, Katniss. Snow still would have exploited us."

"You don't know that. After our first Games, I ignored you. I should have visited you, talked to you more often..."

"You know, I was just as capable of doing those things, too. But I didn't. I knew how conflicted you were, and I was embarrassed by how I'd acted on the train home, so I figured it would be best to give you your space. I didn't want to make you feel uncomfortable or pressured, so I ignored you just as much. Katniss, look at me." I very gingerly touch my thumb to her chin, guiding her face up toward me, and her eyes are apologetic and doubtful as she looks up at me. "No matter how charming or handsome or perfect the nation thought I was, _we were still strangers_. No reasonable person would have ever expected you to reciprocate feelings I'd spent _eleven years_ cultivating within a matter of weeks. That's just absurd. That's not how it works."

"I could have at least thanked you for the bread..." she says, and though her tone is petulant, it's subdued with defeat.

"...In an ideal world, where boys would have been your biggest problem, you _might_ be able to say that. And that's a very big _might_. But you weren't exactly afforded that luxury...were you? You were too occupied with not starving to death. Protecting what was left of your family. No one blames you for not putting me high on your list of priorities." I stifle a yawn behind my fist, glancing toward the window at the grey sunlight filtering through. I'm still not accustomed to days. I don't think I ever will be again. And it's much too early for me to be awake yet.

"You're not going back to sleep, are you?" Katniss asks skeptically as I close my eyes and settle back into the pillow.

"Actually, I am," I mumble.

"But it's midday! We can't stay in bed all day," she argues, but her tone is doubtful, as if the idea doesn't sound entirely unappealing to her.

"Who says?" I say, tugging her closer and tucking her snugly against my chest. "We saved the nation, Katniss. Pretty sure we've at least earned that privilege."

And I'm still too exhausted and sore from hauling Coin's body across a field. And Katniss is much too soft and pleasant against me for me to want to get up quite yet. Soon, she'll likely hate me. She'll probably always cringe around me. I have to at least enjoy this short moment of happiness before it's gone. Somewhere in the back of my mind, the persistent voice of responsibility nags at me, that there are important things to be done. The council of commanders that form our interim government expressed the desire to meet with me on my ideas for reconstruction. Doctor Aurelius insists on me returning his calls and wishes to speak with me urgently. Arrangements need to be made for Crispin and Sterling's bodies, because I'll be damned if they're relegated to the incinerator. And, most importantly, I must speak with my father. There's a lot of catching up to do. There are painful conversations that need to be had.

Reconnecting with my father is probably the most daunting of my responsibilities right now. I always held the utmost respect for him. I don't know if I can look him in the eye now, or if he's even aware of half of the things I've done here. What might he think about my acquired taste for revenge? He was always a charitable, humble man, and I took after him in that way for the longest time. Until the Games. My biggest fear, aside from Katniss turning away from me, is the disapproval of my father. Other than Katniss, he's all I've got now.

But all of that can wait. The steady thrum of the rain outside and the comforting warmth of the bed has Katniss dropping off to sleep next to me, and I lightly graze my fingers over the bit of exposed flesh beneath the hemline of her camisole, my touch light as a feather, almost not touching her at all. She stirs with a languid shiver as my fingertips brush over the bit of sensitive skin below her navel, and my nose nudges behind her ear as I inhale the scent of her hair. Lavender and white tea, with a touch of mint and something else that's distinctly her. The undertone of juniper. I raise my hand to brush the hair away from her neck, but I hesitate, knowing she'll cringe or start out of her relaxed state if I do. Very gingerly, I tuck her hair back, taking extra care not to actually let my hand meet flesh. It will be a while before she's ever comfortable with my hands coming close to her throat. ...But what about my lips?

I nuzzle at the space behind her ear, gauging her reaction, and she tilts her head in silent welcome. "May I kiss your neck?" I whisper against her ear. She answers with a sleepy moan, and I let my lips brush over the slope of her neck, delighting in the softness of her skin. "The bruises are long healed but I still feel obligated to kiss them better," I whisper, circling my arm around her waist and drawing her tighter against me.

I breathe in the freshness of soap still clinging to her skin, my lips parting as I taste the throb of her pulse, strong and heady in the heat of my mouth. How could I have ever bruised this flesh? How could I have ever seen her as a threat? She huffs out a sharp sigh as I place a trail of soft, open-mouthed kisses below her ear, her body writhing in my embrace as she presses her rounded bottom against my groin. I close my eyes, wishing my body would respond as it should. This still feels the same as it always did. Pleasant, warm, the heat of affection still swells in my chest when she yields to my lips. The emotions are all still there. My body is not. I'm thankful that she's facing away from me so that she doesn't see the flush of humiliation on my face. The sensation of Katniss grinding back against me used to cause me to spring to life in an instant. Now I'm sent into a completely new frenzy of doubt, wishing that so much of our relationship hadn't been so dependent on sex. I'm at least reassured by the fact that she'll probably not be interested in sex so soon after being reunited, with so many more important things to figure out. ...Right?

She gives another moan and a shudder as I gently tug at her flesh between my lips, then she turns over to face me, gazing across the pillow at me through heavy-lidded eyes. Nudging her chin up with the knuckle of my index finger, I lean in and devour her throat with more kisses, smoothing my hand into the small of her back as she arches into me. Savoring that pulse in my mouth. I nearly stopped that pulse with my hands. I tried to kill her. I might never have kissed this throat again. Might I have eventually come back to myself some day, only to be met with a world where Katniss doesn't exist? Accompanied by nothing but my sterile hospital room and my restraints and my guilt-ridden sorrow. The notion causes tears to spring to my eyes, and I bury my face in her neck so she doesn't see. It nearly causes me to panic, and I want so much to disintegrate into weeping. I never had the chance to feel remorse or guilt about it until now, and it's hitting me like a ton of bricks. The burn of anxiety in the back of my throat prefaces the sensation of a flashback, and I squint my eyes shut and lightly clamp my teeth into her neck to stave it off. _Not now. Please, not now_.

She gives a slight cringe but a moan sounds deep in her throat, her little hand wrapping around the back of my head to press my mouth deeper into her flesh. Her fingers entwine in my hair, causing a pleasured chill to run through my scalp, and I place a light kiss over the crescent of teeth marks I've imprinted into her skin. The threat of a flashback still haunts my subconscious, and my hands grip her waist as though my life depends on it.

"I'm so sorry, Katniss," I mumble against her throat. "I never meant - " My throat closes as I attempt to choke back my tears, but she leans in to silence me with a kiss just in time.

"I missed you," she breathes against my mouth, then kisses me again before I can attempt to steer the moment back to apology.

It's intended to be soft, light, chaste. But the looming flashback taunts me from the recesses of my memory, and my mouth clamps down on her bottom lip in frenzied passion. Yes, still the same. This still feels the same. Familiar. Pleasant. Warm. Soft. My hand slides up her waist, grazes over her shoulder, and without even realizing it, I cradle her neck in my palm, and she's so distracted that she doesn't cringe. I suck on her bottom lip, giving it a gentle bite, and when her breasts swell against me, I can feel the peaks of her nipples pressing against my chest through the sheer fabric of her camisole. I want those in my mouth, too. I still enjoy doing this. I still want her, but my body won't respond. It's infuriating and frustrating and saddening all at the same time.

Her hand leaves the back of my head and migrates down between us, absently going for the waistband of the training pants I sleep in. I delicately still her hand by wrapping my fingers around her wrist, which causes her to pull out of the kiss and fix me with a slightly wounded expression. I imagine it's the same expression she saw on me so many times after the Games, and the guilt that sears through me causes me to quickly downcast my eyes. I don't want her to know of my inadequacy. I don't want her to take it personally. I don't want her to think for one second that it's because of her. I think of that moment waking up to the realization that they'd chopped off my leg, and the irrational fear that they'd severed my manhood as well, and I figure they might as well have for all the good it's worth now.

My eyes flit back up to her, and a deep crease is forming between her brow. "We were just reunited, Katniss," I say softly. "I don't know if we're ready for that yet."

"You don't want me like that anymore," she says, and her voice is barely a whisper, as though she's out of breath.

I close my eyes in frustration, then pull her tightly against my chest again. "Of course I still want you," I say firmly. "Just that...maybe we should hold off on the sexual stuff for a while. Get to know each other again."

She's tense in my embrace, as though she's doubtful of my sincerity. If only she knew. I still want her. I'm just broken. I don't know if she'd understand. Do women experience impotence? I don't know if there's any way I could explain it to her that would put it into perspective for her, to assure her that it's not her fault. Perhaps it's about time to return Dr. Aurelius' calls. I need this fixed. Immediately. I didn't fuck and assassinate my way through half the Capitol, survive all of the things I've survived, only to be unable to make love to the only woman I did all of that to protect.

"So you're just going to get me all hot and then leave me hanging?" she says, her voice muffled in my chest and colored with a lingering whine.

I huff out a small laugh as my fingers stroke her spine. "I suppose I'm being a little unfair." At least I've still got my hands and my mouth, and they work just fine. "How about...you show me how much you missed me?" I say, letting my old mischief creep back into my voice as I gently maneuver her back against the pillows. Yes, this is a good distraction. Playful. No flashbacks. Not real. _This_ is real. The flush to her cheeks. The fading crescent of my teeth where a bruise shaped like my thumb used to be. Her nipples straining against the fabric of her shirt as her breasts heave with each labored pant. The dilation of her pupils eclipsing the storm of her irises.

"What do you want me to do?" she asks, still breathless but not nearly as wounded as she was just moments before.

"Touch yourself for me," I say, slowly pulling the covers away. I lean over her, propped up on my elbow as I guide her hand down between her legs.

She inhales slowly, chill bumps crawling over her flesh at the suggestion. She doesn't even hesitate to comply, keeping her darkened eyes on me as her fingers trail over the mound between her legs, idly rubbing herself through the fabric of her underwear. I keep my eyes locked intensely on hers until she loses herself in the process and her eyelids flutter shut, her brows coming together in an enticing display of concentration. Her hand moves in a slow rhythm between her legs, and I fidget with the hem of her shirt, letting my fingers graze over the bit of exposed flesh between her askew hemline and the waistband of her underwear. I inch the hem of the shirt up and trace the plane of her stomach, the valley just inside her hipbone, the taut flesh just below her navel. She trembles at my feathery touch, and she begins to rub herself a little more vigorously as I lean in to press my lips to the chilled flesh of her exposed stomach.

"Would you like to take this off?" I whisper, tugging at the hem of her top, which I've inched up to her ribcage.

She nods quickly and stops rubbing herself just long enough to raise her arms so I can slip the garment over her head. Her hand goes back between her legs, disappearing down the front of her underwear this time, and I idly trail my fingers over her bare flesh, taking simple pleasure in the softness of her skin. I remember this. There are a few more scars now, some healed burns, but she's still as soft as ever. The contours are still the same. The texture of her skin is still the same. Those lovely champagne nipples still excite me and make my mouth water. I weigh her breast in my hand, reacquainting myself with its softness, how it fits perfectly in my palm as though we were made for each other, and I lightly coax the peak of her nipple awake with the pad of my thumb. She lets out a soft moan, and I lean down and close my mouth over her breast, making slow circles around her nipple with the tip of my tongue. She arches her back, pressing herself harder into my mouth, and her fingers work frantically in her underwear as her breathing becomes disjointed and erratic. I tug at her nipple with firm, probing lips, stopping to sporadically place delicate kisses to the curve of her breast.

"Did you touch yourself while we were apart?" I whisper, letting the heat of my breath ghost across her skin.

"Yes," she pants, no trace of hesitation or embarrassment in the confession.

"What did you think about?" I breathe, moving up to nuzzle at the spot beneath her ear again.

"You."

"Doing what?"

She doesn't answer, but not out of reticence. She's too flustered from concentration, and I don't miss how her muscles go taut beneath me, how I see just a sliver of the whites of her eyes beneath her almost-closed eyelids, the crease deepening in the center of her brow with her mouth slightly open as though she's preparing for an oncoming sneeze. I know this face well. She's about to come. We can't have that just yet.

I lightly trail my hand down her body and still her hand beneath mine, tugging at it and drawing it away from her as she responds with a petulant moan. " _Doing. What,_ " I repeat firmly. She knows this game. She knows I won't let her finish until she indulges me.

"Spanking me," she gasps, and as if provoking me to do it to her right now, she slightly resists against me as I take her wrists and guide them above her head, where I pin them to the bed with one hand.

"Keep going," I say, dragging my lips across the delicate skin of her throat.

"With your belt," she adds.

My hand snakes down between her legs, and I let my fingers graze along the moisture that's seeped clean through her underwear. Her hips arch upward as she tries to grind herself against my fingers, but I withdraw just out of reach. "And what else did you think about?"

"The way you'd bite me when we made love." She's almost whining now, rocking her hips upward in silent begging.

"Oh, that's right," I muse against her ear, then give her neck a quick bite that would only cause a fleeting sensation of sharpness. "You're a pain junkie." My fingers slowly rub her folds through the fabric of her underwear with a little more precision, adding enough pressure to give her some temporary semblance of relief before stopping again, eliciting another petulant moan from her. " _What else._ "

I see a pronounced blush creep up her neck, and she cringes back into the bed as though she wishes she could disappear into the pillows. I distinctly draw my hand away from her, pulling away just enough to cause her to panic, and she arches her hips upward again. "The night before the Quarter Quell," she says quickly, and I slowly bring my hand back between her thighs.

Oh, we did a lot of things that night. I close my eyes against the memories of handprints on panoramic glass, fluids dried into the sheets, a headboard-shaped indentation in the wall. I actually feel a little guilty for the Avoxes who most assuredly had to clean it all up. "And what part about that night?" I ask, unable to hide the playfulness in my tone.

Her eyes are closed and her head is turned to the side, and I know she doesn't want to look at me when she tells me. "When I couldn't climax...and you slid your finger up my ass to make me come."

She blushes a deep red, and I respond by slipping my hand beneath the elastic of her underwear, parting the petals of her folds as I moisten my fingers in the slickness of her arousal. My finger finds that magical bundle of nerves nestled between her folds, and I rub her in slow circles, gradually increasing speed as she writhes and pants beneath me.

"And did you like it?" I purr.

"Yes." She says it in nothing more than a breathless wheeze.

"Were you embarrassed that you liked it?"

She winces, and I feel her stomach go taut beneath me. " _Yes_."

"And would you like for me to do it again?"

A throaty groan escapes from behind her clenched teeth as my finger assaults that magical kernel of pleasure, and her hands ball up into fists as she shouts, " _Yes!_ " with impatient fervor.

She's suddenly crying out beneath me, her back arching off of the bed and her hips rocking frantically with each wave of her climax, the whites of her eyes disappearing behind fluttering eyelids. She groans out an impassioned " _Fuck, Peeta_ ," through clenched teeth, and I can see the pulse beating wildly in her throat. I trace it with gentle kisses as she rides out her orgasm before finally going limp and collapsing beneath me. I gently withdraw my hand from between her legs, releasing her wrists so that I can trace the crescents of her eyelashes, the soft shells of her closed eyelids, smooth the damp tendrils of her hair back from her forehead. Her panting quickly slows to shallow, relaxed breathing, and I place a light kiss on her slightly parted lips that she sleepily returns.

I settle beside her and close my eyes in frustration. The excitement is still undeniably there. I still love doing this. I still cherish the closeness of her body, the press of her naked skin against me. My heart still races when I touch her, when she moans in response to my touch. But my body refuses to respond. It's at least reassuring that Katniss is pleased, and she shifts beside me so that she's curled up at my side, where she rests her head on my shoulder.

"So much for holding off on the sexual stuff, hmm?" she mumbles.


	14. Chapter 13 (Part Two)

It's afternoon when I finally wake again, and the rain is still gusting against the windows outside, accompanied by the low rumble of thunder in the distance. My fingers instinctively extend across the bed for Katniss, but the space beside me is empty. I forget I'm the one that keeps unusual hours, and that she must have risen well before me. My spirits are at least marginally lifted when my eyes fall on the Toscanelli laying on the bedside table. A small smile tugs at my lips as I envision Katniss taking extra care to salvage it from my bloodied clothes while I was in recovery, and it makes my heart swell for her even more. She must have gone out of her way to retrieve it for me and bring it back here before going off about her day, and it's hard to believe I'd ever regarded her as selfish. As if the girl who sentenced herself to death just to save her sister could have ever been anything but selfless.

I hastily go to get dressed, noting that I'll have to send out for a replenishment of my wardrobe - it would seem that the majority of my waistcoats and dress shirts have ended up bloody or with bullet holes in them. Perhaps it wasn't wise to fight a rebellion in designer clothes. Skimming through what belongings I've had shipped here from my apartment, I settle on a crimson waistcoat and black shirtsleeves, tucking the cigar into my pocket. Red isn't particularly my color, but upon inspection in a mirror, it's elegant enough even if it is a little flashy.

Then a memory hits me out of nowhere, and I see a glimpse of Crispin looking back at me, looking refined and poised in the same clothes, wearing a matching blazer. He had this same waistcoat once, and wore it to one of Snow's parties. The memory is so vivid that I have to brace myself against the dresser to keep from collapsing to the floor, and I'm assaulted with the cold sweat of panic and the erratic beat of my heart. _Crispin's gone_. _They killed him because of you_.

I clamp a hand over my mouth, panting heavily through my nose as I threaten to fall apart all over again. My day technically hasn't even started and I'm already fighting off tears. I was doing so well. Now all I can think about is how I'll never see him again, never kiss those quaint lips again. I feel like I squandered away my time with him. I recall my first few appointments with him and how I'd been convinced that nothing would ever make me feel attraction for another man. That he deserved someone who could love him the way he wanted to be loved.

And then I went and fell for him anyway. Our relationship grew to something I'd never intended or expected, but turned out to be a delightful surprise in the long run. He taught me how to be human again. All the nights I fell asleep wedged between him and Sterling after a late night out at the theater, overcome with how warm and content and safe they made me feel. How I'd kiss the scars on the insides of his arms and tell him everything would be all right when he was having a particularly bad day. How I'd gently tend to his fresh cuts whenever he had a relapse, muttering soothing reassurances to him as he cringed from the sting of antiseptic. How I'd hold him and stroke his hair and cover his face and throat with soft kisses until he trembled and sighed my name. Did he know how much I loved him? Did I ever tell him? I feel like I must have, but I think it was obvious even if I hadn't. I'd come to love them both in a way I didn't think I could anymore.

I don't know if I'm going to make it through the day. The reminder of how they were both violently taken away from me forever just makes me want to dive back into bed and never come out. I feel like I might shatter into a million pieces. And I need desperately to speak with my father. There's a lot of catching up to do. A lot of explaining. A lot of confessing and apologizing. I feel like I've been hit by a train. I thought I'd lost everything, and my father turns up alive. It's as encouraging as it is daunting. I think my mind has become so accustomed to trauma and devastation that I've forgotten how to process happier news. Or perhaps I'm just perpetually edgy and apprehensive because I know how easily it can all be taken away.

I need a fucking drink.

I'm met with the chaos of frantic soldiers the moment I step out of my room, and I'm nearly knocked back into the wall as a rebel swishes past me. From the various chatter I hear, they're on high alert, and as I make my way down the corridors, listening for the specifics, I immediately learn it's because Coin's body has gone missing.

 _Fuck_. I probably should have told somebody about that. Or at least had the foresight to realize my cleanup mission might have been met with some level of disapproval.

I rush down a flight of stairs and into the east wing where Snow's study is located, wagering that whomever I need to tell about the fate of Coin's body is in there, along with that much needed beverage. The commanders from the districts are all tensely poised about the room, and all heads snap up as I burst inside.

"I put her in the incinerator," I say abruptly, and my tone has the blunt edge of no remorse.

"You... _what?_ "

My eyes flit over to the familiar voice, and it's Dalton, standing awkwardly by Snow's desk as he stares at me in disbelief. I don't know him all that well, but I respect him well enough. He was close friends with Sterling once. For that fact alone, I have trouble meeting his eyes. I can't go having an emotional breakdown while unapologetically justifying my disposal of a despotic leader.

"I should have told someone. I apologize for sending you all into a panic."

"Why...why would you do that?" I don't recognize the speaker, but she has the bronzed skin of District 4.

I set my jaw, prepared for opposition, and boldly meet her eyes. "Because I needed the finality of it. I just...needed to make sure."

I don't think anyone misses the implication that it means I'd be totally comfortable with having burned her alive.

There's a confused tension lingering about the room, but to my surprise, a wave of collective relief seems to pass over some of the commanders, and while some are looking at me with impatience or mild disapproval, I see mostly empathy and concern. They think I'm crazy. They won't retaliate because they think I'm unbalanced. Which I am.

District Four sighs, her eyes lingering on me for a moment before tearing her gaze away to issue orders into a radio. "Call off all search parties. All units stand down. False alarm."

The district commanders close in around the discussion table and begin conversing in rushed tones so that I don't entirely catch everything they're saying, but it's clear that they're deliberating on what to do with me. I wonder if they think I'm still a mutt. I wonder if I should just play it up anyway so I can spare them the concern, but immediately disregard the idea. I'm a little too proud at this point to let the other guy take any credit for my actions.

I abruptly step forward. "If I may," I begin diplomatically, and all heads snap in my direction again. "If you all don't mind my asking, what exactly were your plans with the body? Did you intend to hold a funeral service for her? A memorial? An unmarked grave? ...Wastes of space and resources, not to mention an insult to the people she exploited. Her husband and children have been long gone. I think you'd be hard pressed to find anyone who actually misses her. I understand you're all alarmed and questioning my motives, but rest assured, this was the best option. Ripping off the bandage quickly, as it were. Admittedly I was in a really emotionally vulnerable place when I disposed of the body, and I'm _pretty sure_ I have internal bleeding from aggravating my gunshot wound in the process, but I doubt anyone really had any better ideas. I'm sorry for alarming everyone. I'm _not_ sorry for getting rid of her."

No one argues. No one even really responds. I'm just met with blank stares and stunned expressions, some of which are shadowed by furtive glances of concession. I smile inwardly at the realization that I've still got it. I can still capture an audience with words. I think my blunt honesty helps me a lot.

The commanders adjourn their meeting, and begin to filter out, giving me a wide berth. District 4 stops in front of me as she passes, and her gaze is demure, passive. As though she's afraid she'll provoke me. I sedately stare down at her, grimly musing at how everything I do now is done with the increased effort of trying to be nonthreatening. I'd avert my eyes out of politeness to make her feel comfortable, but I don't want to seem guilty or remorseful. I like to own my actions.

"Dr. Aurelius will be here to speak with you this evening," she says in a hushed tone, then leaves me alone in the room.

Well that's convenient, at least. It will spare me the headache of playing phone tag during the limited energy window tonight.

I cross the room to the beverage table and pour myself a drink. I hear the door open and close behind me, but I don't turn to see who it is. I can tell by the clumsy, uneven footstep that it's Haymitch, and I still don't trust myself to be able to look at him without feeling homicidal. He sidles his way over to the table and comes to stand next to me, awkwardly rummaging through the decanters and glassware and nearly upsetting a bottle of fine single malt. I'm at least grateful for having developed an assassin's reflexes during my employment under Snow, and I reach out and deftly catch the bottle as it teeters on its rim, just before it can crash into the surrounding bottles. I upright it with a frown, setting it a little too firmly back in its place.

"Where is the ice?" Haymitch asks in annoyance.

I roll my eyes. "The fuck do I know? Drink your liquor neat like a real man," I say, raising my own ice-less glass in a mock toast.

I think he's felt continuously provoked by me ever since I was brought back to Thirteen, because something in him seems to snap at my comment. He huffs out an impatient sigh and rears a fist back to hit me, but he's sloppy and I'm faster than him. I smoothly deflect and barricade my forearm across his throat, forcing him backward so that he roughly slams into the wall. I pin him there and glare at him in hostile warning, and I know we're both remembering the time he nearly dislocated my jaw merely because I tried to get him to do his job, and had spilled his drink in the process. I've been silently wanting to get him back for that this whole time.

"You done?" I say, my voice a low, threatening growl. I don't want to injure him. I just want him to know that I _could_.

He scowls at me, but only when I hear a reproachful " _Son!_ " from the doorway do I release Haymitch, wincing as I slowly turn to face my father.

His expression is hard to read, but thankfully I don't see disapproval in it. Some form of anguish, yes, a little sympathy. But no disapproval. I'm still mortified that of all the moments my father had to walk in the room, it had to be during this one. I don't want him to know how merciless I've become. I don't want to risk the chance of him seeing a trace of my mother in me. I have a lot of things I need to say to Haymitch. We need to clear the air. I'm finally coherent and have some things he needs to hear that for once aren't just inflammatory diatribes and insults, but catching up with my father is a more urgent matter.

"You've got some serious temper issues to work out, boy," Haymitch says, and the condescending emphasis on the last word is laid on rather thick.

I feel my nostrils flare as I draw a deep breath, then turn back to face him, leaning in close enough that he seems to shrink into the wall behind him. " _I am not your boy_ ," I seethe. "You'd do well to stop underestimating me and show at least a marginal amount of respect. You have _no idea_ how many people I've killed while I've been here. You don't want to provoke me."

I step aside, opening the opportunity for him to escape. He glares at me, but wisely keeps his mouth shut as he heads for the door.

"We'll continue this conversation later," I say just as he reaches the door, and he visibly stiffens at my frosty tone before slipping out.

My eyes finally rest on my father, and I let out a sigh of resignation. "It wasn't my intention for you to see that." I turn back to the refreshments and pluck another glass down. "Would you like a beverage?" I say over my shoulder, and don't wait for an answer before I'm pouring it. To my surprise, he accepts the glass when I hand it out to him, and we wordlessly settle into chairs opposite one another near the window.

He inspects me in silence for a long moment, serenely sipping his drink as his eyes fall to the sleeve of tattoos on my right arm, and he smiles a little. "You designed every one of those, didn't you?" he says finally.

I can't hide the shock from my face, and I nod. "How could you tell?"

"The hard edges and bold colors," he says with a shrug. "It's a style you've been using out of habit ever since you started frosting the pastries."

A hollow forms in my chest, and I slowly bring a shaking hand over my mouth as I feel the tears well up in my eyes. Of course he'd seen my cakes, but to be able to recognize my style with such detail, between two completely different mediums, is such a profound observation that I think I might lose it. "I hadn't known you noticed," I choke out, and my voice is barely above a whisper. I think I'm suffocating.

He seems to become withdrawn then, and his smile slowly fades as his eyes drop to his lap. "All things considered, I should have noticed a lot more," he says vaguely.

I shake my head and lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. "What do you mean?" I ask.

"I should have known she was abusing you," he says, and his voice is saturated with guilt. "It should have been so obvious to me. I should've - "

"We all should have done things differently," I interrupt softly. The last thing I want him to do is blame himself. Too many people seem to be taking credit for someone else's sins lately, and I certainly won't be having it from my father. "It's understandable that you couldn't tell. That was my intention. I hid it from everyone, because I was ashamed of my weakness and the shame it would bring upon the family. You had enough to worry about. You had a business to run and an insolent wife to placate. Don't blame yourself for something that was outside of your control."

A bitter smile crosses his lips, and he takes another drink. "Well, it was mostly my fault that she was that way. She knew she wasn't my first choice. I wasn't hers, either. It was a marriage of convenience, and I treated it like one. It was an unhealthy relationship by all means, and my children suffered for it. I have a lot of regrets, Peeta. I want you to know that I completely understand if you wish to hold me accountable for them."

" _Dad_ ," I say, and I set my glass down on the table between us and rub my face in my hands. "She might have used that as a convenient excuse to justify her behavior, but there really is never any reason to treat your own children that way. She was a selfish, childish, vindictive woman, and I have absolutely no intention of wasting any ounce of contempt or blame on you when she deserves all of it. Don't excuse her behavior. Nothing was your fault. You gave her a steady income and a home and food on the table. She should have been grateful for that. It's far more than she ever deserved. It's my understanding that you only married her out of pity because none of the other merchants would have her. It's a far greater charity than I ever would have extended to the likes of her."

I suddenly regret my words, hearing them objectively in my head and realizing how spiteful and unforgiving they sound. Two years ago I never would have dared to even think such vitriol, much less voice it to my father. When I tentatively raise my eyes to look at him though, he doesn't show a shred of disgust or concern. He merely nods in understanding.

It's a painful reunion. He describes the destruction of Twelve, and how he escaped. He tells me what happened to my brothers, and his subsequent mental breakdown, and I find myself swelling with acidic rage and hatred for my mother all over again. Wishing she hadn't died in the bombing, so that I might have the honor of taking care of her myself. I don't tell him. I keep those thoughts to myself. He commends me on my resilience and pragmatism. Not once does he voice any concern or disapproval of my cynicism or vengeful nature. He tells me how happy he is with Mrs. Everdeen, and that it never really is too late for anything. He asks me if I feel awkward about it, which I don't. He promises that they'll at least not get married so that Katniss and I don't have to be step-siblings, which elicits the first genuine laugh from me in a while. He says they don't need a contract to define the bond they share.

Merely being around my father, his charitable nature and subdued voice, makes the coldness within me dissipate. He's the man I wanted to be when I was younger. Everything he's ever done has been out of sympathy and compassion for someone else. He's always been so attuned to other people's needs, respectful of boundaries and accepting of differences. I don't know how he does it. Especially after having been married to my mother, I can't understand how he never turned cynical or cold, like I did. I wouldn't even be able to fake it. And still, he doesn't judge me. He is clearly a better man than I. I can't ignore how lucky I am to have such a positive male influence in my life when so many men my age never did. Words can't even begin to encompass how much I appreciate having him back. A mentor and advisor I can trust, who won't belittle or underestimate me.

 _...An advisor_.

I hesitate for a moment, draining my glass and setting it back on the table between us, deliberating on the propriety of what I'm about to ask. His expression is open and welcoming as always, so I draw a deep breath and force myself to continue. "Dad, have you ever...did you ever experience difficulty...like, in the bedroom?" I ask after a long silence. It's an awkward thing to ask, but only because I can't know how uncomfortable he'd be with answering a question of such a personal nature. Being a hired sexual companion in the Capitol has stripped me of any notion of modesty I might have ever had, so I find little shame in asking embarrassing questions involving myself.

"Ah," he says, closing his eyes momentarily, as if he completely understands why I'm asking. He then looks back to me and frowns slightly, that same expression of sympathy still etched on his face. "You're having problems?" he asks.

I sigh and look down at my glass, giving a small nod.

"Taking everything into consideration, it's to be expected," he answers after a momentary silence. "I can't imagine that excessive drinking is helping your situation, though," he says grimly, nodding toward my empty glass. "For what it's worth, Dr. Aurelius is already here. I believe he's seeing Katniss right now." He gives a slight shrug as he fixes me with an apologetic expression, as though he truly wishes he could offer better advice.

That's a relief, at least. Not only that Aurelius is here, but that he's helping Katniss cope with her demons, too. All I have to offer is my warm embrace at the end of the day, and somehow I don't think that's quite enough to piece together the war-torn commander she is now.

My father and I finally share a rough embrace, and we make plans to visit a Capitol bakery soon. Haymitch stumbles back into the room not long after my father leaves, too drawn to the temptation of an opulent liquor supply, and I exhale sharply through my nose and roll my eyes as I begin heading for the door myself.

"You know she originally wanted to save _you_ ," he says, just as my hand reaches the door handle.

" _What?_ " I say hotly, my tone seething with impatience.

"When Coin had the hovercraft sent into the arena. She originally wanted to extract you. We never meant to abandon you, Peeta."

I whip around to face him, and I think my expression is one of such unadulterated hostility that it actually startles him, because he takes an abrupt step back, nearly losing his balance.

"You think that's why I'm pissed off at you?" I say incredulously, and I'm so fucking offended by the assumption, the implication that I would be angry about something so selfish, that I think I might actually stride up to him and hit him. "For fuck's sake, Haymitch. Do you think for _one second_ I wished our roles were reversed? That I'd wish upon Katniss what happened to me? Because that would have been the only alternative. Do you really think I'd rather it had been her who was tortured and sold to the depraved lunatics in this city? Wow _, go fuck yourself_."

"So what, then?" he asks, and his usual drunken incoherence is temporarily eclipsed by the determination in his tone. "If you're going to hold me in contempt forever, you might as well tell me what I'm fucking up," he says angrily.

"Let's start with the blatant disrespect and condescension since day one," I say, slowly advancing on him. "You fucking hit me the very first day you met me. Or how patronizing you've always been, with both of us. _You lied to us_. You underestimated us. You treated us like fucking children. And most of all," I say, slowly coming to a stop just in front of him, "how you broke every single promise you made to both of us before the Quarter Quell. I told you to protect her. I told you to fucking keep her safe. You were the closest thing to a father figure she's had in a while, and you blew it. She was far from safe in Thirteen. You just let her be exploited. I'm not mad because you abandoned me. I'm mad because you abandoned _her_. Fuck you, Haymitch."

"What could I have realistically done?" he counters, raising his voice slightly. "You think Coin would have ever let me stand in the way of her plans to exploit the Mockingjay?"

I shake my head, rolling my eyes in frustration at how much he's missing the point. "She needed someone to protect her emotionally when I couldn't. Something tells me Hawthorne ended up doing a better job of it than you ever could have. ...Did you really tell her she could live a hundred lifetimes and never deserve me before the Quarter Quell? Did you really fucking say that to her?"

I can tell by his defensive expression that it's true. It occurs to me that Haymitch might see this as a betrayal on Katniss' part, that he'd assume she's been lamenting his cruel behavior when he's not around, when really she just has a tendency to talk in her sleep sometimes. She's confessed a lot of things without knowing it, and out of respect for her privacy and her pride, I never bring it up.

"You're such a prick, Haymitch," I say with a chastising shake of my head and a dismissive wave of my hand. "You really would have made an abysmal father."

I think this strikes a chord in him, because he reels back and seems as though he's going to say something, and I can only imagine that the girlfriend he once had that the Capitol killed might have had plans on bearing his child. But I'm entirely unsympathetic to him right now, and he quickly shuts his mouth at the fiery glare I shoot in his direction. A challenge, of sorts, to say one more thing that might piss me off. I can be an insufferable prick, too. I learned from the best.

And I'm not going to hit him. I'm _not_ going to hit him. ...I _really_ want to fucking hit him.

My hand twitches into a fist at my side, but I want to convince myself that I'm better than that, especially considering I have the advantage here. I'm young and strong, and he's feeble and drunk. He's not worth it. Instead I wheel around with every intention of leaving, but I'm startled by Katniss, who has come up just behind me. Her eyes are rimmed in red and there's a vacant look in her eyes as she stares at some point in the distance, and I remember having been just as wrecked after my very first session with Dr. Aurelius as well. My anger suddenly dissipates, and I forget all about Haymitch and instinctively reach out to Katniss so that I can pull her into my arms, where she buries her face in my chest and mechanically wraps her arms around me.

"I know, the first time really blows," I say sympathetically, and I idly knead her spine to work out the tension in her back. "But the hardest part's over now. It only gets better from here."

She doesn't say anything, and the only sound coming from her are the sporadic hiccups of empty sobs. I know too well that dried out feeling of having wept too much, as though there's no more grief left to give, and I wordlessly embrace her, resting my chin on the top of her head. Holding her like this causes the ache of grief in my chest to subside a little, and I find immense comfort in the fact that she wasn't taken away from me as well. It makes the loss of Crispin and Sterling bearable. It reminds me that I didn't quite lose _everything_. I can guarantee that if I'd lost all three of them, I would have ended my life without a second thought. And right now, the moment is too divine for me to want to share it with anyone else, so I shoot a warning glare over my shoulder at Haymitch, and he grabs a random bottle from the liquor table and hastily leaves.

"Do you need me to do anything?" I ask softly, stroking her hair and rubbing her back in slow circles.

"You can make me a drink," she deadpans.

I give a slight chuckle as she sags against me, and I have to hold her up to keep her from hitting the floor. I ease her into one of the oversized chairs by the window, practically having to carry her across the room, then procure a beverage for her, which she accepts with a shaking hand. I forgo a drink for myself.

"You wanna talk about it?" I say, settling myself next to her, where she instantly nestles up against me so that she's halfway on my lap.

She shakes her head, then knocks back the drink in one swallow. I take the glass from her trembling hand and set it on the table before she can drop it.

"Katniss..." I ease two fingers under her chin and tilt her face up toward me. "How much of that conversation did you overhear?"

She sheepishly looks away. "All of it, actually."

I close my eyes in regret, wishing I could have practiced more restraint. I really never, ever wanted her to see that side of me again. "I'm - "

" _Don't_ ," she says firmly. "If you're going to apologize, don't. You told Haymitch exactly what he needed to hear. The only reason I never did is because it would make me something of a hypocrite, considering he and I are too much of the same person, and I deserved everything he said to me, anyway."

" _No you're not_ , and _no you didn't_ ," I say, and there's such deadly conviction in my tone that it sounds almost aggressive. "You need to stop feeling guilty for doing what you had to do," I say, softening my voice so that it doesn't sound so combative. I hate when she does this. I hate when she plays herself down like she's worthless. "Remember the conversation we had about deserving people? People aren't fucking trophies, Katniss. Don't you dare let him even imply that. He's a grown man, he should fucking know better."

She frowns as though she's unconvinced, but nods curtly. "Do you really hate Haymitch, then?" she asks.

I actually have to think about that one for a minute. "No," I say after a short moment. "I cherish my hate too much to waste it on the likes of him. There are so many other people who are so much more deserving of it. I just feel a certain degree of contempt toward him because he engenders so many of the same negative traits that my mother did. I think he needs to be more responsible and make better choices. We've all lost someone. We've all experienced tragedy and the crippling unfairness of life. That gives no excuse to constantly alienate and belittle what few people you have left on your side. He could have played his cards a lot better when it came to this whole thing."

"We all certainly underestimated you," she says, looking up at me with an expression I don't immediately recognize. ...Admiration, maybe? "I like you this way," she says quickly, seeing the disdainful expression on my face at the implication that no one ever expected such vindictiveness from me. "You're still that nurturing, charming boy who threw me the bread, just all grown up now. ...And I really, really do like the tattoos," she says with a smile.

I'm about to respond when Dr. Aurelius pokes his head into the room. "Ah, I thought I'd find you in here. I'm ready whenever you are, Peeta," he says. It occurs to me that I'm just that predictable - everyone comes looking for me in the room with all the booze. I give a quick nod and signal I'll be there shortly.

Though if I'm entirely honest with myself, I don't want to leave Katniss alone right now. I'm generally uncomfortable letting her out of my sight at all, considering how that ended last time, but the last thing I want to do is treat her like she's helpless, or turn into some invasive, overprotective asshole. I know she can handle herself. But when she's emotionally vulnerable like this, I know she can get reckless, which makes me considerably nervous.

I tighten my arms around her and press my lips to the top of her head. "Are you gonna be alright on your own for a little while?" I mumble against her hair.

Her fingers tighten around my shoulders as though rooting me to the spot, but she nods. She clings to me as I begin to maneuver her from my lap, so I relent and sit back, allowing her time to relax a little. Her ear is pressed to the center of my chest, and it seems as though she's trying to bury herself there, as though she can't get close enough to my heartbeat. It's an endearing reaction, and I absently stroke the back of her head. This feels good. _Oh_ , this feels good. Every time she's fallen into my arms since we were reunited, I'm reminded of how much I've been subconsciously craving this over the past months. How it felt as though something was _missing_ , but I couldn't quite figure out what.

I briefly pinch the bridge of my nose to quell the blooming ache in my sinuses, closing my eyes to force back the sting of tears. They come so easily now, with no warning or preamble. It's too easy to realize how close I was to losing her. _I almost lost her_. The guilt and shame are always there, waiting for me to invoke the memories of the things I said to her. Even though I wasn't myself in the moment, I still remember too vividly how fragile and delicate her throat was in my hands, her pulse beating frantically against my palms, the look of shock and fear registering on her face, and ultimately, betrayal. I remember the whispers in the halls of the medical ward, that she was a suicide risk and to keep eyes on her at all times, that she might have been more of a threat to herself than I was. It sends me into a panic just thinking about it, invoking gruesome images of her slumped in a bathtub of bloody water, lifeless and grey on her bed next to an empty bottle of pills, hanging from a rope wrapped round her neck. If she'd actually done it, I would have felt responsible.

"I'm sorry I left you," I whisper, burying my face in her hair so that she won't hear the way my voice breaks.

She immediately looks up, having heard it anyway. I meet her eyes for just a moment, then quickly look away as one tear stubbornly escapes and trails from the corner of my eye. Her brows pucker and she reaches up to brush it away with her thumb.

"You didn't have a choice. You're punishing yourself for things that were out of your control," she whispers, and I think she's moved by the emotion in my eyes because her face wavers a bit and tears spring into her eyes as well.

I think I have a rebuttal for that, but my voice has failed me. Instead I just lock my arms tighter around her so that I'm almost crushing her, and I don't care about the pain in my ribs or that the tears I've worked so hard to force down are flowing freely now. She buries her face in my shoulder, but I feel the dampness of her tears seeping through the fabric of my shirt, and we just cling to each other and weep.

"Does it really get better?" she mumbles after a while, and her voice is so thick with grief that I almost don't understand her at first.

"For the most part. I won't lie to you, Katniss...the wounds never really heal. It's always going to hurt. We just find better ways of coping with it. The waves of grief come farther apart and you learn how to survive them a little better each time. There are going to be bad days. Anything, anywhere can trigger a memory that causes the whole world to cave in on you. But you'll fight through it. And there will be good days, too. And I'll be there to help you. I - " My voice catches, the grief of shame and guilt wrapping an unforgiving hand around my throat and causing me to choke on my words. "...I intend to make up for all the times you needed me when I wasn't there."

She responds with a sniffle, then eventually disentangles herself from my arms. "You shouldn't keep Dr. Aurelius waiting," she says, and I can tell she's avoiding my gaze.

I frown and whip a fresh handkerchief from my pocket, then catch her chin beneath two fingers so I can lift her face toward me and begin gently dabbing at her tears. "You're angry with me," I say quietly.

"No, not with you," she says, and her eyes shift to meet mine. "Just...shocked by your honesty."

I continue to gently wipe her tears from her face, my movements slow and deliberate so she won't instinctively cringe against me. "I won't patronize you, Katniss. I respect you too much to console you with meaningless platitudes. This is our life now. But you're a survivor. We both are. It won't be all bad. I promise."

She draws a deep breath and nods, then glances back toward the assortment of liquor. "Can I sleep with you again tonight?" she asks, and her voice is small, as though she's mortified for asking.

"Of course you can, you don't even have to ask," I say, stroking her hair away from her face. "Listen, just...try not to overmedicate in the meantime, okay?" I say, glancing toward the liquor. "Take it easy on the booze until I can be nearby to make sure you don't have any unfortunate accidents."

Katniss doesn't quite know this house as well as I do, and it terrifies me to think she might take a wrong turn somewhere and end up broken at the bottom of a staircase. She's become as dependent on drink as I have, and by the looks of the shape she's in already, I don't want to take any chances.

She nods and flashes me another sad smile.

* * *

I'm paralyzed with grief, my trembling hands clamped tightly over my nose and mouth as I lean forward with my elbows on my knees. This feeble gesture alone might be the only thing holding me together right now. I was in mid-sentence when the wave hit me, and when I suddenly stopped talking, blinded by the blur of tears in my eyes, Dr. Aurelius politely looked down at his clipboard and scribbled some notes, patiently allowing me to get a grip on my sanity. We're not even fifteen minutes into our session and I'm practically catatonic. I can't find my voice. I don't think I'd be coherent if I even attempted to speak.

I don't think Dr. Aurelius is having the easiest time of holding himself together, either. The very first subject he questioned me about was my stunt with Coin's body, and I didn't hesitate to explain exactly why I did it. Inevitably, Sterling and Crispin came up. And Crispin was one of Dr. Aurelius' patients. They'd known each other a lot longer, and now, seeing his jaw twitch, the flicker of the vein in his neck as he swallows with significant difficulty, the reddened eyes, the hoarseness to his voice as though it's been whittled away with grief, I safely come to the conclusion that - impartial psychological professional or no - Aurelius will hardly censure me for my actions. I'm surprised he didn't end up recusing himself from my case due to conflict of interest. But then I can't imagine there are many others in his field. He might be the only one left.

What's clear is that I'm not ready to talk about Sterling or Crispin. Allowing myself to grieve over them and talking about them are two very distinct things, and I can't even say their names without my voice disappearing into the wisp of an oncoming sob. I have half a mind to excuse myself early, and I have no doubt that Aurelius would allow it, but I came here with a purpose. There are too many things I need to sort out, and delaying it won't help. I'm grateful when he leads the conversation in a different direction, offering a marginal distraction from what may inevitably be a complete emotional breakdown.

We discuss my mother at length. My paralyzing fear of becoming like her. Being in the arena. My night terrors. Losing my leg. Being tortured. Addiction. All things we've discussed before. Laying it all out chronologically in a controlled setting makes it easier to put everything into perspective, and it gives me the chance to appreciate the profound amount of trauma I've survived. It's notable that I'm not more of a wreck than I already am. Having my father back seems to have helped considerably, and Dr. Aurelius offers suggestions on ways to reconnect with him, to rebuild the relationship I never quite got the chance to have with him while my mother was still alive. It's a surreal experience, discussing the potential for me to have something approaching a normal life. A part of me still isn't entirely convinced it's possible.

"Tell me about your reunion with Katniss," he says finally.

I immediately look up, drawing a deep, shaky breath as I ease myself back against the cushions of the chair. "Frustrating," I say after a moment's deliberation, and my voice is barely above a whisper.

"You're still struggling between reality and hijacked memories?"

I shake my head. "No, I think I've got most of that sorted out. I just...I'm still having problems...achieving an erection. And I refuse to deal with any drugs anymore, even performance enhancers. I'm eighteen fucking years old, I should be able to get it up on my own," I say bitterly.

Dr. Aurelius looks up from his notes, regarding me over the rims of his glasses. "In what setting did this present itself as an issue?"

I hesitate, unsure of how much I want to divulge of last night's events. I can't imagine he'll consider it a good idea to be getting intimate with Katniss so soon, and I'm already plagued with countless irrational fears of things that might keep us apart. "We, uh, ended up in bed together last night. There was foreplay and...it didn't work. I couldn't get aroused."

He pauses for a second, then nods and scribbles something on his clipboard. "And the last time you achieved an erection without assistance is still the same as the last time we talked?" He rifles through his notes, skimming the pages for a moment. "...During your captivity after the Quarter Quell?"

I press my lips together and nod. I'm surprised he hasn't questioned me on our readiness for intimacy so soon. There's no way he considers it a healthy idea. "Even then, it was a real chore, with our lives and our dignity on the line if we didn't perform," I mutter.

"Are you still experiencing flashbacks involving your hijacked memories of Katniss?"

I shake my head. "Not quite. I've developed the ability to recognize when they're coming on, and I can sufficiently distract myself to control it...avoid triggers. But the anxiety of being susceptible to one is still there. There's no predicting if or when I'll lose control."

"Have you given yourself time to reevaluate your feelings for her?" he says, a tentative edge to his voice.

I shoot him a sincere glare. "It's not that," I assure him. "I'm still attracted to her. The emotions are all still there. I still experience excitement, emotional arousal...the only thing that's different is the way my body responds. That's why it's got me so concerned. I'm afraid there might be permanent damage. I can't even tell if the problem's purely physical or all in my head."

He continues to scribble notes for a moment, then slides his pen into the top of his clipboard before leaning back and fixing me with a solemn expression. "You've experienced a considerable amount of trauma. It's not unlikely that regardless of your conscious desires, your brain has come to associate intimacy with force and violence. You've been hardwired to find an underlying revulsion to sexual contact. There's also the simple fear of being unable to perform that can cause anxiety and lead to problems achieving arousal. The excessive use of narcotics probably played a part in it as well, though it will help that you've discontinued using them. It's not uncommon at all, for people in your situation."

 _People in my situation_. How many of those are left, I wonder? I'd give anything to have Finnick back. Surely he'd be able to offer the wisdom of experience. Judging by Annie's swollen belly, I'd wager he confronted his sexual demons some time ago. But then I feel the lump of regret rising in the back of my throat at the mere thought of him, the horrible things I said to him without ever getting the chance to atone for them, and I have to shove his memory back down into the recesses of my mind so that I don't have to fight off the threat of a breakdown all over again.

I sigh impatiently. "Well, that's to be expected," I say, my tone a little sharper than I intended. I shoot Aurelius an apologetic glance, then close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. "How do I fix it?" I ask, my voice more subdued.

"Barring a dependency on pills? Give it time. Ideally, you'll begin making new, positive memories associated with sex and intimacy that will reprogram your body to respond properly."

I open my eyes and drop my hand to the armrest, nervously tracing the embroidered pattern in the upholstery as I stare across the room at him. "'Ideally?'" I repeat.

He sighs, and there's a flash of sympathy in his eyes. "There's never any guarantee of recovery. But considering your progress concerning your hijacking, from a purely clinical standpoint, I'd say your case is rather promising. Be patient. You can continue your sessions with me. And I know you don't like the idea, but as a last resort, you can always continue taking medication to help you."

I cup a hand over my mouth, wearily rubbing the lower half of my face as I stare distantly at the floor. _Promising_. It's such a neutral word, and doesn't bear the reassurance I'd wanted. "And your thoughts on us being intimate so soon?" I ask. "I imagine you think it's a horrible idea."

"Are you asking my professional opinion, or is that what _you_ think?"

This slightly catches me by surprise. What _do_ I think?

I think back to those first few nights in captivity, before the torture and the venom had started, before they corrupted my memories of her, and how the thought of her was the only thing that kept me going. The only beacon of hope in my isolation where I had nothing but the screams of my fellow inmates to accompany me. Even after they'd conditioned me to hate and fear her, some small vestige of my subconscious clung to her out of habit, like a phantom pain my brain stubbornly refused to erase. After all this time apart, after all the blood and pain and death and fighting, it would be absurd _not_ to want to spend every waking moment tearing each other's clothes off.

"I think I really want to be with her," I say with a shrug.

"Then regardless of any professional advice I give you, you're going to do what you want anyway."

I snort softly, one corner of my mouth going up in a sheepish half-smile. He's not wrong. "Really, though. Is it a healthy idea?" I press. "If it's going to be...counterproductive to my situation, I'd rather heed your professional input, regardless of how much my hedonistic tendencies compel me to do otherwise."

He seems to think for a moment, idly flipping from one page of his notes to the other, his eyes shifting as he skims the pages. "Do you know what self-actualization is, Peeta?" he says finally.

I give an ironic huff of a laugh. "I think I've got a long way before achieving that."

"On the contrary. I think you're already there. That you're even acquainted with the concept speaks volumes."

I shrug. "Sterl-" I stop short, suddenly out of breath from nearly mentioning her name. "...She had a lot of books," I gasp. I'm about to say more, but my voice has decided to check out again.

Dr. Aurelius gives me a moment to recover, then continues, "The point being, you show a remarkable pragmatism and perception of reality, you recognize and accept your flaws and capabilities equally, and you've had the ability to cultivate profound personal relationships even when you were still convinced you were, as you said, a 'mutt.' Taking everything into consideration, I think it's safe to say you've made a fair amount of progress, and can enjoy the freedoms that come with self-determination. Not many people have the ability of speaking as openly about their problems as you have. You've never exhibited denial or hostility in our sessions, only a notable self-awareness and strong desire to fix yourself. ...Meaning, if you think you're ready to be intimate with Katniss, then you're ready."

I give another half-smile. That might actually be the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me. "It's easy to appreciate a professional who seems to know what they're doing. It's more than I can say for the charlatans in Thirteen," I say bitterly.

It's a bit of an understatement. I showed all kinds of hostility to the people who treated me in Thirteen. Where Aurelius attempts to analyze the root of a problem and mitigate it with logic and positive reinforcement, the "doctors" in Thirteen were content with sedating a problem away and forcing a hijacked mind to comply via forceful methods. I can't hold back my scowl as I recall hazy days strapped to a bed with a lithium IV and no recollection of where all the time went, perpetually nauseous and delirious from the drugs and wondering if my memories were dreams or reality.

"So what do I tell Katniss in the meantime?" I say finally, my voice barely above a whisper. My near-mention of Sterling still has me feeling as though the wind's been knocked out of me.

Dr. Aurelius regards me over the rims of his glasses again, and his expression suggests the answer is obvious. "The truth. Be honest with her. Be as open with her as you have been with me."

My brows come together in apprehensive worry, and I shake my head. "I'm not sure she'll take it well. It's unfortunate...I feel like so much of our relationship was dependent on sex. We were forced together in such an awkward, highly-publicized manner with no real chance to get to know each other or develop an organic sense of chemistry, so we turned to physical intimacy to fill that void. I feel like...I don't know, like we were using sex to solve all our problems. And now, that's what we're naturally tempted to do again. It was the only thing that seemingly helped her with her confusion about her feelings for me, and now I can't even give her that. She's going to take it personally. I don't think she'd understand."

"She may understand more than you think. Open communication in this relationship is tantamount to its prosperity. If you're both completely honest with each other, that organic sense of chemistry you mentioned will come naturally soon enough. Without sex as a distraction, you can use this as an opportunity to finally get to know each other in the way you wanted to in the midst of all the publicity. Talk to her, Peeta. You may be pleasantly surprised."

It's reasonable enough, but that doesn't make it any less daunting. I've been comfortable talking about my impotence problems with Dr. Aurelius because he's a professional. He hears this stuff everyday. It's his job. Somehow I don't think confessing the problem to Katniss will be quite as easy. The idea of it alone is humiliating, and I take to wandering the corridors of the mansion after my session in an attempt to build up the courage to even initiate the conversation. No matter how I rehearse it in my head, it's painfully awkward. I can't realistically conceive her reaction. I desperately want a drink, but I avoid stopping by Snow's study. I don't see myself ever completely kicking that habit, but I certainly don't want to hinder my progress - or worse - end up like Haymitch. I can go one evening without a drink in my hand.

I climb flight upon flight of stairs until I can't go up anymore. I emerge on the rooftop, and it's flush with a garden I never knew about. This isn't like Snow's greenhouse, stifling with a heat saturated by the stench of some perverted version of roses. This is just a regular garden like the one on the rooftop of the Training Center, in which Katniss and I shared some of our happier moments. The power has temporarily come back on for the evening, and the dimly lit skyline casts an eerie reddish glow against the darkened nighttime clouds. While most might find it ominous, I see something strangely peaceful about it. There's a crisp moisture to the air, though the rain has momentarily subsided as the echoes of thunder continue in the distance. There's a tall, lean figure slumped at the railing overlooking the City Circle, and I forget how silent my footstep has become until he senses my presence and jumps when I come close, whirling around to face me with a hand going back over his shoulder, reaching for a weapon that isn't there.

Gale has become as conditioned for battle as I have.

"Fuck," he breathes, wearily regarding me through narrowed eyes before slowly turning back to the skyline. "It's a good thing I wasn't armed. I might have shot you."

I casually come up beside him, leaning my elbows on the railing. "You would have done well in the arena," I say, meaning it as a compliment but not realizing how morbid it sounds until hearing it spoken aloud. I briefly close my eyes. "I mean, you have excellent reflexes, is all."

He's silent for a long moment, staring listlessly out at the cityscape, and when I chance a brief glance at him, I see that his eyes are bloodshot and there are the dark bruises of exhaustion beneath them. He looks as emotionally broken as I feel. "Well. You make one hell of a soldier, yourself," he says finally.

"Assassin," I correct him darkly.

He nods. "It's hard to envision what a world without war will do with the likes of us," he says, and his face is momentarily illuminated by the silent flash of distant lightning, enabling me to see every bit of pain and weariness etched into his expression. "What are you going to do now?" he asks.

I shake my head. "I don't know. I hadn't really thought about it. I wouldn't be opposed to staying in the Capitol. It's become more of a home to me now than Twelve ever was."

He casts me a sideways glance. "Katniss will never go for that."

I huff out a small laugh and nod. "No, I guess she wouldn't."

"You know they sent cleanup crews to Twelve to clear out all the wreckage," he muses. Some morbid place in my mind parses _wreckage_ as _bodies_. "Special firefighters to put out the pits that are still burning in the mines. They even found some way to cleanse the toxins from the air. Twelve should be habitable again pretty soon."

"Imagine that," I say neutrally. I don't want to voice out loud that I have no intention of returning to Twelve if I can help it. None of my friends from school made it out alive. The memory of my mother would make me too angry. The memory of my brothers would make me too sad. There's nothing for me there but shadows and skeletons.

"Listen, Gale," I say after an extended silence, turning slightly toward him. "I never got to thank you for pulling me out of the Capitol that first time. ...You risked a whole lot to rescue me and the other hostages that night. I'll be forever indebted to you for that."

He flashes a wry smile. "No kidding. Even starved and broken, you're not exactly the lightest person in the world. Damn near broke my back carrying you out of there."

This elicits a genuine laugh from me, and Gale gives a slight chuckle and shakes his head.

"Seriously, though," he says, his voice low and sincere. "You know, you never had to defend me the way you did with Commander Thread that day, either. Nor did you have to look after me when I was recovering. It was incredibly noble of you...all things considered." He shrugs awkwardly. "I'd say we're about even."

And he'll never have to know of what ultimately happened to the intrepid commander in the end, either. There's a momentary, awkward pause, and I deflect the only way I know how - with self-effacing humor. "So which one of us leans in for the kiss now?" I say.

Gale responds with a hearty, booming laugh, and for just a moment, he doesn't look quite so broken. I think it's the first time I've seen him look anything other than solemnly sincere since we left Twelve. "You know what Mellark, you're alright." He suddenly casts his eyes downward, as though embarrassed about something. "...I should never have treated you with such hostility for as long as I did. It was petty and shallow of me," he says, his voice subdued and humble.

I dismiss it with a wave of my hand. "Things were complicated back then. We were practically still kids. At any rate, she needed you. You looked after her in Thirteen when I couldn't be there. Thank you for that."

He inhales sharply, and I see his jaw clench as his eyes glisten with the threat of tears. "Take care of her for me, will you?" he says.

I take an abrupt step back, regarding Gale with suspicion. "Where are you going?" I feel a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach as I surmise that this will preface a departure in which Katniss will not be involved, which has the potential to break her even more.

He shakes his head and takes an uneven breath. "Got offered a job in District Two. I leave tomorrow morning."

My brows come together in concern, and I press my lips together as I study Gale's wounded expression. "And Katniss?" I say softly.

"I don't think that's gonna work out." His voice is shaky, and I can tell by the way he seems to be taking every effort not to fall apart that there's more to this story he's not telling me, and probably wouldn't be able to get it out without completely breaking down anyway.

I don't question him further. I merely nod and fix him with my sincerest expression of sympathy, recognizing the finality of concession in his words. I can't help but feel my heart break for him, and I impulsively pull the cigar from my pocket and hand it out to him. "Congratulations on the job," I say, a small reflection of sadness in my voice. I can understand too well how much he must be hurting right now, and regardless of childish past rivalries, I never would have wished that kind of hurt upon him. I've been there too many times myself, and it's unbearable.

He gingerly takes the cigar, turning it over in his fingers and looking at it in mild fascination. "My dad used to come home with one of these from the Hob every year, even though we could barely afford it." He pauses to lift it to his nose. "I never thought I'd see one again. ...Thank you."

I flash a sad smile and nod. "Good luck, brother," I say, and he firmly shakes the hand I extend out to him, then pulls me into a quick embrace that causes me to instinctively cringe from the wound in my side, but I return the gesture with a couple of reassuring back slaps. "You'll be alright," I say. "Don't be a stranger. I'm serious."

He steps back and nods, then leaves just as the rain begins to fall again.

* * *

I find Katniss still in Snow's study, and she's slumped over on the couch by the window. I slowly cross the room so as not to startle her out of sleep, then kneel down beside her and delicately take her face in my hands. "Katniss," I whisper, turning her face up toward me as my thumbs caress her cheeks.

She doesn't respond.

" _Katniss_ ," I say, more firmly this time.

I immediately notice her shallow breathing, and when I take her hand in mine, gently massaging her wrist between my palms, the pulse is thready and sluggish, and her skin is cool to the touch. _Alcohol poisoning_. I knew I shouldn't have left her.

"Katniss, wake up. Katniss, I need you to open your eyes for me," I say urgently. I delicately steady her jaw with one hand as I lift one eyelid with my thumb to inspect her pupil. She stirs slightly, giving a fretful moan, and I curse under my breath. "All right, come on," I say, sliding my arms underneath her and hoisting her off the couch. She's incredibly light. Uncomfortably, disconcertingly light. She hasn't been eating.

I carry her back to my room, where a steward must have lit the candlelight sconces on the wall, which cast the room in a flickering orange glow. A fresh fire burns in the fireplace, and I'm grateful for the warmth as I delicately lay her on the bed, maneuvering her so that she's laying on her stomach with her head turned to the side. Waking up is going to be considerably unpleasant for her, and with the foresight of a substance abuser, I gently pull her hair back into her usual braid and secure it with an elastic that I find in the bathroom. It's still relatively early for me, so I can at least keep an eye on her with no risk of falling asleep. I pull a chair up to the bed and settle into it, closely watching the lethargic rise and fall of her back to ensure she's still breathing. Every time she stops for more than a few seconds, I lean forward and rub rhythmic circles into her back to get her lungs responsive again, then press my fingers to the pulse points in her wrist.

After a couple of hours, she stirs and her body convulses in a dramatic shiver, her hand feebly reaching out to me. Her fingers are ice as she touches the back of my hand, and I recognize the subtle invitation to join her. I hesitate for a moment, then kick off my shoes and slide in next to her, still in my clothes. I know too well from personal experience that hypothermia is a risk in these situations, and judging by the constant tremble claiming her body and the unhealthy hue of her lips, I don't want to take any chances. She curls up at my side, clutching a fistful of my shirt, then smoothing her hand up to my neck so she can warm her fingers there.

I warm her slightly parted lips beneath my fingertips, wincing as another vivid memory of Crispin rips through my head, unforgiving and vivid and sharp. I used to hold him just like this. I'd pull him tight against me and press the pad of my thumb to his bottom lip in a little teasing gesture just before leaning in to devour that rose petal of a mouth in a soft kiss. It always invoked a shy smile and the most delicious tremble from him, even in his weakest moments. He'd be sick and hopeless from withdrawal, but one touch of my thumb to that divine, pouting bottom lip and he was mine forever, given new strength by my affection. And now, my fingertips ghosting across Katniss' paling lips, I see a hint of a weak smile there. An echo of someone I lost. I close my eyes and take several slow, measured breaths to calm my racing heart. _It still hurts_.

"It's just like old times," she mutters as a clap of thunder vibrates the walls of the house and heavy gusts of rain batter the windows.

One ghost to replace another, only this time the phantom is of a place rather than a person. The memories of those moments in the cave seem so innocent and warmly pleasant now, even though we were both fighting for our survival. In hindsight, it really does seem like they were just games. There was no war back then. No torture. No district bombings. No threats from President Snow. Our families and friends were still alive. We were just two kids finding comfort in one another in what might have been our last moments. It's disgustingly obscene how naive we were in that moment, to think that it couldn't get any worse for us. That two years later, we'd be reminiscing about how pleasant it was.

But it is just like old times, and my arms tighten around her as I realize how alarmingly comforted I feel by the notion. Perhaps because that moment signified the beginning of our relationship. And then my heart breaks for Gale all over again as I remember the pain in his face under the glow of lightning on the roof, and I can't help but imagine how he must have watched those scenes of the Games with that very same expression.

Katniss suddenly shifts in my arms, and gives a low groan as she lifts a hand to her head. She abruptly bolts upright, wrenching herself from my embrace as she leaps from the bed and dashes to the bathroom, slamming the door behind her just as I hear the unmistakable sound of her violently regurgitating her inebriation. I rise from the bed and cross to a table that's consistently set with a crystal pitcher of fresh water, and I pour her a glass before coming to stand just outside the door, leaning against the door frame as I wait. I push the glass into her hands when she emerges several minutes later, and she sinks onto the foot of the bed and takes an apprehensive sip.

"All of it, Katniss," I instruct firmly, lightly touching her chin as I lift the glass up to her mouth.

She makes a disapproving face, but follows my advice and hands the glass back to me before flopping onto her side on the bed. She closes her eyes and winces, and her brows knit together as she brings the heel of her hand up to her forehead. I come to sit next to her, gently smoothing my palm over her back in an attempt to comfort her. Not a half hour passes before the vertigo and the pain get to her and she's bolting right back into the bathroom to regurgitate the water she just ingested. I close my eyes and sigh, coming to stand against the door frame again so that I can help her back into bed when she returns. After ten minutes of silence on the other side of the door, I tentatively call her name to no response.

I enter the bathroom to find her collapsed on the cold tiles, curled in upon herself and breathing shallowly, tremors claiming her body. I press my fingers to her throat and her skin is on fire, her pulse beating erratically against me. I wonder how many times she vomited before I found her in Snow's study, because she's severely dehydrated. I'm at least thankful for the early hour, as I'm less likely to be seen by anyone while carrying an unconscious girl through the halls, and I lift her up in my arms and carry her down to the wing where I recovered from my gunshot wound.

The lights are dimmer than I remember and flicker sporadically, and it's clear that the generators are low on power. Thankfully a nurse greets me when I enter, hastily sweeping a curtain aside so I can lay Katniss down on the bed. Her eyes open and she urgently reaches out for me as I lay her down, and I smooth the loose hair back from her forehead and mumble reassurances to her before stepping back to allow the nurse to take a quick assessment of her symptoms.

"She can't even keep water down?" the nurse asks me, noticing her level of inebriation.

I shake my head. It's determined that Katniss will need to be given fluids intravenously, which poses a bit of a problem as this nurse appears to be something of a novice and can't seem to find a vein and start the line. Katniss is marginally lucid now, and after the sixth unsuccessful stick, she cringes and recoils away from the needle, causing me to sigh in exasperation as I grab a pair of latex gloves from a nearby dispenser and pull them over my hands.

"Do you mind?" I ask, already liberating the nurse of the needle before she can answer.

I gently wrap my hand around Katniss' elbow, assessing how delicate her veins are. They're hardly a challenge for a junkie, and my thumb makes soothing caresses over her elbow as I puncture the tender flesh in the crook of her arm, gently sliding the needle into the vein on the first try. She hisses with a sharp intake of breath, but when I lift my eyes to meet hers, it's not pain registering on her face, but that same lethargic admiration I'd seen on her earlier, a trace of a shy smile lingering on her lips.

"You're pretty good at that," she whispers.

"Well, I've had some practice." Was it in poor taste to joke about it? I don't care.

The nurse gives me a curt nod of gratitude and comes over to adjust the line, then leaves, pulling the curtain closed behind her to give us some privacy. I peel the gloves off and settle myself into a chair by the bed as Katniss drifts back into unconsciousness. I eventually find myself lightly tracing the fine bones of her hand, occasionally stopping to warm it between my palms, then I rotate her wrist upward so I can trace the faint blue veins there and savor the throb of her pulse against my fingertips. When she shivers in her sleep, I pull a blanket over her to keep her warm, then go back to warming her hands in mine. I think I actually fall asleep in my chair for a while, but then I'm right back to memorizing that pulse with my fingertips upon waking. Some hours later, as I'm entertaining myself by idly dragging my lips back and forth across the soft skin at the inside of her wrist, she stirs and her eyes flutter open, giving me a contented smile when they fall on me.

"Hey," I say. "It's good to see your eyes again."

A flicker of some indescribable emotion shadows her face, and she seems to think for a moment, as if trying to remember something. "You said that to me in the arena," she says. "Real or not real?"

I nod. "Real." I inspect her in silence for a moment, my lips still brushing against the delicate skin of her wrist and registering the strong, steady increase of her pulse as I meet her eyes, trying to analyze the emotion I see in them now. "You love me," I counter. "Real or not real?"

And she whispers, "Real."


	15. Rebels in Kontrol (Part One)

_.Katniss._

My eyes glaze over as I stare listlessly out the window, slumped in a chair at the table in front of an untouched tray of food. Peeta had it brought up to the room for me, since I haven't had much of a stomach for company and can hardly find the motivation to get out of bed. Today is most decidedly one of those forewarned _bad days_. As was yesterday and the day before it.

Gale is gone. I hadn't seen him leave, or seen him at all, really, since we voted on having a final Hunger Games. I'd awakened from my drink-induced coma to the news that he'd departed some hours earlier. Without saying goodbye.

Not that I made it all that easy for him. I've been isolating myself away from everyone, losing myself to the intricate labyrinth of the mansion without really telling anyone where I'm going, or knowing where I'm going in the first place. As hostile as I'd been to him, I imagine he felt unwelcome in my presence. I wonder if he looked for me. I wonder if he meant to tell me he was leaving, or if he just wanted to avoid the awkwardness and the conflict altogether. I wonder if I'm angry about it. My emotions are such a chaotic tangle in my head right now that it's hard to tell how I feel about it. Trying to figure it out just makes my head hurt, so I set my eyes on a fixed point in the City Circle outside the window, figuring if I focus on one thing for more than thirty seconds, I'll be able to rouse myself from this waking coma I've been in for the two days since I was released from the medical ward.

The only visible thing in the grey haze outside the window is a bright, holographic billboard that dances with a moving advertisement for some liquor or other. A still of an elaborate, crystal bottle is displayed, then the image changes and it's Peeta, dressed just as sharp as ever and wearing his seductive Capitol smirk as he raises a glass in a toast out to the City Circle. Fancy script appears across the bottom of the screen: _The beverage of victors_. The advertisement is on eternal loop, and I stare at the swaggering, iconic Capitol gentleman that Peeta has become, wondering how many people here have used his face to sell their products. I've seen him in no less than a dozen other advertisements, whether on the sides of buses or in magazines that pile up in the foyer. Men's fragrance, cigars, riding boots, cufflinks, a clothing line that specifically tailors blazers. Always in these ads he's poised and stylishly dressed, wearing a haughty expression or staring out from the picture with a captivating, seductive glare.

Seeing them makes me feel so distant from him. He seems so confident and glamorous in them, like shooting these advertisements was second nature to him. It probably was. He's so sophisticated and refined now, and I wonder how in the hell he still has any interest in me, as feral and untamed as I've become. He's so profoundly changed, seemingly a completely different person, yet somehow still so familiar. I'm hypnotized by the animated billboard, and only when it abruptly goes dark as the power is shut off for the evening do I come out of my daze.

I'm suddenly aware of Peeta sitting right across from me, having forgotten he was even there. Through the rushing in my ears, I can barely make out that he's speaking to me, and he looks concerned.

"Please eat, Katniss," he pleads. "Even if it's just a few bites."

My eyes flit to him and I flash him something between a smile and a frown. He leans forward and picks up the utensils, and I know without a doubt that he'll spoon-feed me if he has to. He looks so immeasurably worried and tragic. Like he's looking at a corpse.

Then I feel a flood of humiliation at how pathetic and helpless I've been. I'm out of control. I'm still embarrassed from how I overdid it with the liquor, how I was so irresponsible and careless that I had to be hospitalized. That Peeta has been so patient and nurturing through the whole thing makes it that much worse. I think of how I felt in that cubicle in the medical ward, his warm hand wrapped around my elbow as he delicately stuck me with the needle, and the puzzling flood of warmth and excitement I'd felt when he raised his eyes to meet mine. I was confused by how intimate the moment felt. I'd wondered at first why I found it so disturbingly arousing. Then I came to realize it was because Peeta was essentially penetrating me in a completely new way. Is it fucked up that I found it so erotic? Maybe. But I don't care.

"You're angry," I'd said shortly after waking, seeing his solemn expression. "You want to yell at me." I couldn't meet his eyes for more than a second.

I saw him nod out of the corner of my eye. "Yes. But I won't," he said softly.

"I don't mind," I said. "I think maybe I need to hear it."

He leaned forward in his chair and took my hand, rubbing it between his palms. "Maybe. But that would make me a hypocrite. I've been there way too many times to count. I've balanced on the edge of overdose too much to be in any place to chastise you. You're allowed to fuck up, Katniss. Just bear in mind that sometimes it could result in never being able to fuck up again. ...At least try to make sure I'm around the next time you do that."

 _The next time you do that_. Not _don't ever do that again_. But rather a prediction for my lapses in control.

"Come on, Katniss," Peeta is saying to me now, and he's pushing the fork toward me. The smell of the food alone sickens me, and I feel an uncomfortable twist in my stomach as I feebly push the fork away.

He sighs heavily and very deliberately sets the fork down again, as though he's struggling with not slamming it onto the table in frustration. When I brave another glance at his face, I'm shocked to see tears pooling in his eyes, and it causes me to stir slightly and attempt to sit up straight in my chair, to try to give at least the illusion that there's some life in me yet.

I don't miss the small tremor in his hand as he brings it over his mouth, rubbing his palm wearily over the lower half of his face. He always looks so handsome and put together, even in grief. His sleeves are always evenly rolled up, his collar perfectly pressed. Not a single wrinkle in his waistcoat, the crease of his trousers immaculate and his shoes always shined. He never looks haggard, always cleanly shaven with the sideburns perfectly trimmed, his thick blonde hair swept up and back from his face. Even when he cries, it's rather beautifully so. The image of portrait perfection. I suppose it becomes a habit when your entire marketability rides on being flawless for the people who pay for your services.

"Katniss, please don't do this to me again," he says quietly.

This causes my head to snap up, and I stare at him in confusion. "'Again?'" I croak, and my voice is thin from lack of use. I realize I haven't really spoken all that much since my session with Dr. Aurelius.

He frantically looks up at me, as though just realizing what he's said, then looks away again as he makes a sound somewhere between a sigh and a huff of exasperation. His jaw flexes as he seemingly chews on his unspoken words, and for a brief moment, that clouded, tortured look from the days immediately following his rescue from the Capitol returns to his eyes. He becomes so still that it's almost disturbing, and I shift restlessly in my chair, which distracts him enough to bring him back from wherever he's gone off to.

"I think I said something dismissive like 'You know why' that day in the arena when you asked me why I threw you the bread," he says after an extended silence. His voice is deathly quiet, and I find myself subconsciously leaning forward to catch his words. His tone is so deadly solemn, as though he's about to confess a secret he's been holding close to his heart for years.

He falls silent for another long moment, staring distantly at the floor, and I see him go somewhere else again. He's remembering something, and whatever it is he's recalling from his memory, it causes the tears in his eyes to become more pronounced, until one silently drips down his cheek, which he quickly brushes away.

"I watched you slowly waste away for weeks," he says finally, and he's so overcome with emotion that he can barely bring his voice above a whisper. My throat catches and I stop breathing, my eyes transfixed on him. "I didn't know what to do. At first you'd just space out in class, unable to really focus on anything. You were really lethargic. Then the shadows appeared under your eyes, and your cheeks started to hollow, and I could see your ribs poking through your clothes. You were _so weak_. You could barely lift your textbooks. One time, you stumbled in the hallway, seemingly just from exhaustion, and I tried to lunge forward to steady you, but the crowd of other kids prevented me from getting to you in time. And I just - "

He stops as his voice breaks, and his hand flies back to his mouth, his jaw trembling and the tears crystallizing dramatically in his eyes as he fights the wave of emotion that comes over him. He closes his eyes and shakes his head, taking a few slow, heavy breaths to compose himself.

"I couldn't help but wonder when it would finally claim you. It was all I could think about, how much time you had left. I lived in such immeasurable fear that one day...I'd come to school and your desk would be empty. Everyday, I wondered... _is this the day?_ Is this the day she doesn't show up? I was in constant fear that I'd sneak by the Seam as I did in those days, and finally see the shapeless white sheet that wrapped your corpse as they hauled your body out of your house. I was watching you slowly die right in front of me, and I was powerless to stop it. I couldn't tell the adults at school because they would take you out of your home...and I don't think I could bear seeing you abused in that community home. I tried to sneak out of my house with food a few times, but my mother always caught me. When you happened to show up in my backyard that day...I had to... I couldn't..."

He trails off and shakes his head again, and there's still that distant look in his eyes as he stares at the floor. I have the powerful urge to reach out to him, to console him, but I'm so moved by his confession that I can't quite will my limbs into motion. _He knew_. He'd been watching me the whole time. I think I may have always suspected, ever since his confession to me in the cave in that first arena. I'd always felt like he was leaving something out, that me merely slumped in the rain under his apple tree could hardly be a compelling enough reason for him to risk a beating to extend his charity. It makes perfect sense that he'd been privy to my struggle since day one. I think in another time, I would have seen this as some sort of intrusion, a meddling in a personal struggle that I was too embarrassed or proud to reveal to anyone else. But now, for some reason, it's strangely endearing and makes me feel overwhelmingly safe in retrospect. That there actually was _someone_ looking out for me, even if I didn't know it.

"I couldn't let you die," he whispers. He gives an ironic little laugh. "I guess I did it more for selfish reasons than anything else. I certainly wasn't going to live in a world where you _weren't_."

I don't realize I'm crying until I feel the moisture of my own tears dropping onto the back of my hand. _Don't do this to me again_ , he said. As if me dying back then would have been a personal affront to him. I'm about to say that he's being absurd, that I couldn't help it back then, but then I realize that I can help it _now_. After having made it this far, it would be a hell of a waste to finally let malnutrition take me when I've got so much affluence and resources at my disposal. Not to mention an insult to him, considering everything he's done thus far to keep me alive. Perhaps I'm being unreasonable. I mechanically reach forward and pick up the fork, which elicits a small sigh of relief from him.

I end up mostly just nibbling on cucumber slices, but it's a start. I haven't eaten properly in weeks, so I don't think my stomach would be able to handle much more anyway. "Why did you never say anything?" I ask.

He watches me for a moment, then shrugs. "When we were in the arena, it was just too private to share with the cameras. And then as complicated as our relationship was after that...I didn't want to make you uncomfortable. I was afraid you'd find it invasive or creepy. There were times when I wondered if my feelings for you bordered on obsession...so I figured it was best if I just kept it to myself. ...I didn't think it was something you needed to know."

I nod, awkwardly moving my food around my plate. "I'm glad you told me anyway," I say.

I pick at my food for a while, openly staring at him from across the table. He's so changed from the boy I met in the rain all those years ago, but I find immense comfort in the fact that his unwavering affection has remained a constant. He's still kind and gentle, but with an edge that excites me on some primal level. He's a mystery to me now. A daring, magnificent, glorious mystery, and for the first time in weeks, my state of perpetual ennui is broken by a spark of curiosity. I realize that I'm actually excited to get to know him again, to get to know this person he's become. And just like that, this glamorous new version of him isn't quite so intimidating. There's a litany of questions I want to ask him, but I have no idea where to begin.

"Did you love her?" I blurt out, voicing the question the moment it pops into my head. "That red-haired woman?" He noticeably stiffens, and I realize that of all the questions I've been wanting to ask him, I couldn't have chosen a worse one to start with.

I'm about to tell him that he doesn't have to answer if it makes him uncomfortable, but after a slight pause, he whispers, "Yes."

"Romantically?"

He meets my eyes for just a second, then quickly looks away. "Yes," he says, and his voice sounds strained.

I nod, slowly processing this information. I'm not sure what made me ask it. It wasn't out of insecurity. I know this because as I digest this information, I don't feel even a shred of jealousy or betrayal. I think mostly all I feel is sadness, because I can't even begin to fathom how much he must be hurting over her death. Maybe it's an attempt to assess how damaged he is now. Maybe I want to focus more on his loss so I don't have to focus on my own. I want to comfort him, but I don't have the slightest idea how.

"I loved _him_ , too," he says softly. "...In the same way." He slowly raises his eyes to meet mine again, and they're apologetic, with a note of apprehension.

 _Him_. The gorgeous dark-haired young man with the knife in his back, whose beauty was so stunning and rare that I was breathless for the few seconds I saw him alive. The one Peeta called Crispin. The one whose death unraveled him.

"...Another man?" I ask tentatively, and I intensely search his eyes, puzzling at the nervousness there.

He nods, and it's as though a shadow has fallen over his face, a reluctant worry in his eyes as he watches me. He's gauging my reaction. He's expecting anger, or jealousy, or disgust. I don't know what I feel about this information, but it's none of those things. Shock, yes. A little curiosity. I've never really given much thought to two people of the same sex being together in that way. I had a vague idea of the unique lifestyles of the Capitol, but now that the idea is so tangible, so personal, it makes me stop to evaluate what I think about it. Peeta with another man. It's perplexing, but a part of me is a little intrigued to know more.

"Do you have any questions for me?" he says, and I think there's a tremble to his voice. His eyes are weary, but steadily fixed on mine.

I take a deep breath, thinking for a moment about how I want to pose my next question. I don't want to sound uncouth or like I'm prying. I don't want to embarrass him, though I know that's almost impossible to do. But mostly I don't want to force him to face his demons before he's ready. I pick at my dinner roll, forcing myself to eat it even as my stomach churns in protest, merely for the opportunity it gives me to stall. I chew slowly, all the time feeling Peeta's intense, patient gaze on me and feeling so much smaller because of it. I swallow thickly and the bread sticks in my throat, and only after a half glass of water am I able to speak again.

"Were you...did you have sex with him?" I ask tentatively. Peeta's teasing about my purity aside, I like to think I've become a little more adventurous since our Victory Tour, but this question brings that old innocent burn right back to my cheeks.

"Ah," he says with an uncharacteristically timid smile. "I knew the awkward questions would come eventually."

"It's okay," I say quickly. "You don't have to answer if you don't want to." I remember all the times Peeta showed an unwavering respect for my boundaries, always making sure I felt comfortable and never pressured, and I intend to extend the same courtesy to him.

"No, you have a right to know these things," he says. "This is a relationship, after all. I want everything to be out in the open between us." He looks down, nervously rubbing his palm over his thigh. "...Yes, we had sex."

I feel my cheeks burn again, the next question forming in my mind as I realize that there is absolutely no tactful way for me to word it. I hesitate, and he gives me a small, encouraging nod to continue. "Which one of you...ah, I mean...were you..."

"Crispin preferred me to top," he says calmly, predicting my next question.

"Oh," I gasp, suddenly out of breath at how awkward I feel. I fidget with my fork, pushing my food around my plate again in an attempt to occupy my hands. "...Did you enjoy it?"

A sad, wistful smile breaks his reluctant expression, and he nods. "Yes. Yes, I enjoyed very much being intimate with him."

His expression invokes a small smile of my own, which marginally boosts my courage to ask my next question. "And, uh, did you ever...bottom?" Despite my best efforts, my cheeks flush hotly as I say it.

He watches me for a prolonged silence, then very slowly nods, keeping his eyes locked on mine. "Occasionally I'd have a client who preferred it."

I take a deep breath, nervously pressing my lips together. "And did you enjoy _that?_ "

He shakes his head. "Not particularly." There's another prolonged silence, that piercing gaze never leaving my face, and I can tell he's still inspecting my reaction. "Does it make you uncomfortable?" he asks finally.

I deliberate on it for about two seconds, then shake my head. "No...no, it doesn't, actually."

 _Not particularly_.

I wince and let out a bemused sigh. "Except maybe that there were times you were forced to sacrifice your body for things you didn't want to do. That's dreadful, Peeta. I..." I shrug and drop my eyes back to my plate, where my incessant fidgeting has made my meal an unrecognizable chaos of vegetables and rice. What could I possibly say to that? I wish I had Peeta's talent with words. "I'm sorry that happened to you," I say quietly. It sounded stupid and trite in my head, and is even more so out loud. I have the strong urge to pitch forward and ram my face repeatedly into my unfinished food.

To my relief, he smiles. "The drugs helped make it bearable. At least I was getting paid. At least I had some marginal control over the matter at that point," he says cryptically, and I'm about to ask what he means by that, but he quickly continues, "You know, I'm surprised you're even familiar with the mechanics of homoerotic sex." The apprehension in his voice has been partially replaced with that old teasing cadence he used to exhibit when commenting on my purity.

I shrug. "Finnick used to talk. Not much, but enough for me to fill in the blanks."

The corners of his mouth tighten in an understanding frown, and he nods once. "It really doesn't make you uncomfortable? That I enjoyed being with another man?" he asks, and I hear the doubt in his voice.

"No. Should it? I can't imagine why it would."

I try to think about this, about why I might be expected to react with disapproval, but all I can think about is that image of Crispin falling into Peeta's arms just before he died, and the affection and adoration I saw in Peeta's face as he touched him. I'd looked away because there seemed something so intimate about the moment that I'd felt I was intruding, but in retrospect, invoking the image tugs at my heart for reasons I can't explain. It was strangely endearing. Peeta looked upon Crispin in much the same way he's looked upon me, and I'm not jealous. Just comforted in knowing that at least he had _someone_ here in the Capitol when I couldn't be here with him. That someone could reciprocate his feelings when I couldn't figure out my own for so long.

Peeta flashes a relieved smile. "The popular opinion is that same sex romance is perverse," he explains, sensing my confusion. He frowns again and quickly looks away, shaking his head. "It was absurd of me to expect you to react like the rest of them. I really do think way too highly of you to lump you in with them. I guess it's just a conditioned response for me to always be on the defensive when it comes to justifying who I love," he says, and though I can tell he's trying to hide it, I don't miss the bitterness in his tone.

I'm roused by a sudden sense of urgency, and I instinctively rise from my chair and cross over to him, where I settle onto his lap and wrap my arms around his neck. My head immediately finds the place where his neck meets his shoulder, and I close my eyes as I'm enveloped in the warmth of his embrace. "I guess I'm just so pure that I'm too sheltered to let conventional bias color my opinion," I say loftily.

He chuckles softly, and his arms tighten around me. "You know, you may actually be right on that one," he says.

"Did you always know you were into men, too?" I ask, my voice muffled against his neck.

He gives a small laugh, and seems to think for a moment. "I wouldn't call it that. I wouldn't say I ascribe particularly to men, it was just...it was just him. I just fell for _him_. He crept up on me."

Like Annie did with Finnick. Like Peeta did with me. ...Like Mr. Mellark with my mother.

"Love's tricky like that, I guess," he muses. "It can't be reasoned with or forced. It just kind of happens, whether you want it to or not. That's what makes it an emotion. Sometimes you can't help who you fall in love with. Sometimes they end up being a different gender than you'd expect. ...I learned a lot of things during my time as a hired companion, Katniss. Not just about sex, but about relationships in general."

"Like what?" I ask.

His hand comes up to cradle the back of my head, his fingers idly stroking my hair as he seems to ponder his answer for a moment. "Like...sometimes you fall for more than one person at the same time. And for some ridiculous, inexplicable reason, you're expected to write off one so you can be with the other. You can't force yourself to stop loving someone, but convention assumes you should just have to fake it. It's remarkably unfair that you should have to choose between them when you didn't _choose_ to love them in the first place."

That dreadful, churning sensation in my stomach gnaws at me a little harder as my mind refuses to accept where he's going with this. I don't say anything, and I hope he'll think I've dropped off to sleep because the only thing I can think about is how badly I want to run from the room and hide in a closet somewhere. I think he feels the panicked beat of my heart against his chest, because he tightens his embrace around me as his hand begins rubbing very deliberate, soothing circles into my back.

"Don't you think that if it's even possible to feel those kinds of emotions for more than one person at the same time, that we were intended to indulge those impulses?" he asks. "You were never selfish for wanting us both. It's okay to have us both. You can still have Gale, Katniss."

I stiffly withdraw from his arms and sluggishly cross over to the bed, where I collapse and hide my face in the pillows. Hopefully this is a distinct enough message signalling the end of the conversation. Hearing Peeta talk about his demons was becoming an effective way of avoiding my own, and as twisted as it is, my bad day was marginally becoming _less bad_. As long as I didn't have to talk about _Gale_. My only consolation is in the knowledge that Peeta isn't a prying person, so hopefully I can just go back to my tactic of hiding beneath the covers and avoiding the world.

I feel the bed shift with his weight as he comes to sit next to me, his hand returning to continue those soothing caresses into my back. "Katniss," he says softly. "What transpired between you and Gale?"

Of course I wouldn't be so lucky.

"I hate him," I say before I even realize I'm saying it. "I'd be content if I never saw him again."

I actually feel him recoil next to me, and his hand comes to a stop in the small of my back. "You don't mean that."

I flip over to face him, giving him what I hope is an assertive scowl, but knowing it reflects too much of the conflicted anguish underneath. Either way, it delivers the message to _drop it_ just as effectively as any words would. " _I do mean it_ ," I say, wanting to sound impassive when it's the last thing I feel and turning to aggressiveness to overcompensate.

I expect Peeta to recoil from the bite in my tone, but he clearly isn't buying it because he just gazes down at me sympathetically. It almost makes me lose my patience with him, but then the voice of accusation resounds in my head, reminding me of all the times I was horrible to him during times of ultimate duress, and my resolve breaks along with my carefully constructed stoicism. I press my lips together to keep them from trembling, for all the good it does me, and when the tears betray me and spill from the corners of my eyes, I give up and don't even try to hide them.

Peeta doesn't question me further. He doesn't even hesitate to settle on the bed next to me and pull me against his chest just as he did all those nights on the train. For a fleeting moment, nothing's changed. He's just as strong and warm and steady against me as he always was, and it feels so like old times that it's almost like nothing happened. We could still be on our Victory Tour, with no war or torture or hijacking or threats to our families. It makes me wonder what would have happened if I'd convinced the nation of my devotion to him, or if Snow hadn't already decided to use him as an excuse to extort me and use the rebellion against me. Would the Quarter Quell have been different? Would we have avoided a second arena? Would Peeta and I be married now?

...Would there actually be a baby?

My heart sinks into my stomach at the thought. Not just that the imaginary child that never was would have eventually been very susceptible to reapings, but the mere thought of being pregnant terrifies me. I've seen too many Seam women in the latest stages of pregnancy, crippled by illness and fatigue, and later, seemingly having their bodies torn apart as my mother assisted them through labor. Of all the patients that sought my mother's expertise, seeing a pregnant woman at our door always made me clear out of the house the quickest. A good number of those women died on our kitchen table right in the middle of childbirth. I realize it's something I never want to experience, much less the responsibility of raising young. I've barely got my own shit together. I can hardly imagine what a wreck of a parent I might be.

The fact that my body responds so eagerly to Peeta's immediacy does not help matters.

I'm unsure if it's the adrenaline from nearly getting killed again, my emotional vulnerability, or coming back together after so many obstacles standing between us, but that creeping ache of desire has been gradually swelling within me ever since I accidentally ended up in Peeta's bed. In my solitude during these months apart, I've been confined to erotic memories and my right hand during rare moments alone, so now that Peeta's here and just as warm and affectionate as ever, the persistent humming between my legs hasn't ebbed in the slightest. If I don't have him inside me I think I might die.

I'm so distracted that I don't realize I've started idly rubbing my palm over his groin until he gently wraps his hand around my wrist to stop me. I questioningly turn my face up toward him, and I can only imagine how pathetic I must look right now, because his face is slightly blurred from the vestiges of tears still in my eyes. He brushes them away with his thumb, and his expression is just as apologetic as ever. He knows I feel rejected in some way, and he looks like he feels horrible for it.

"Don't let your sexual desire be defined by spite," he says gently. "You're just mad at Gale right now."

"No, I just want _you_ ," I say hotly, and I want to be angrier at him for saying it, but I know exactly how it must look to him, and I really can't blame him for coming to that conclusion. And I certainly don't want him to feel exploited for his affection during my moments of weakness. It's not like he owes me sex or affection any more than I owed it to him. The least I can do is extend him that same respect.

"Admittedly, Katniss, there's...there's something I need to talk to you about," he says. "I've been trying to come up with the fortitude to tell you for a few days now."

My heart sinks into my stomach at the shadow in his tone. _Something I need to talk to you about_ is rarely ever a preface to news anyone wants to hear. Very carefully, I raise up from his chest and prop myself on my elbow, and I think he sees the fretful reluctance in my face because he gives a quick, reassuring chuckle and lightly tugs at a stray bit of hair that's escaped from behind my ear. It's at least comforting that I don't cringe every time he raises his hand near my face, but it's only because I've been taking every conscious effort to resist the instinct. I hate myself for even developing that reflex at all.

"It's really no cause for alarm," he assures me, and his smile is slightly grim, but genuine. "It's really more embarrassing for me, and possibly inconvenient for you." He pauses, looking down for a moment as he seemingly searches for the proper words. "Katniss, do you know what impotence is?" he says gravely, raising his eyes to meet mine again.

I hold his gaze for a moment before answering. Of course I know what it is, I've been overwhelmed by it at times. Like when Rue died in the arena and I could do nothing to avenge her. "It means like you're powerless," I say slowly, but there's an edge of doubt in my voice. Somehow I don't think this is what he means.

He gives a nervous laugh and nods. "Yes...yes, you could say that. But like in a sexual context?"

The question throws me a little, but it only takes a few seconds for me to put it together, and I close my eyes in tragic understanding. "You can't...you can't do it. ...That's why you stopped me the other night. And just now." I open my eyes again and he's looking at me as though he's slightly impressed, but rather sadly so.

He nods slowly. "I'm surprised you figured it out so quickly."

I shrug and look away. "Remember, my mother's a healer. Sometimes the older Seam husbands would come to her for herbs and medicines to help them...ah, _put lead in their pencil,_ I think is how they described it when Prim and I were around. I was just a kid at the time, but as I got older, I started to understand just what that meant."

This elicits a hearty laugh from Peeta, and it goes on for such an extended moment that it evokes a small chuckle from me as well. He brings a fist in front of his mouth to stifle his laughter and shakes his head. "A fitting analogy," he says. He then takes a deep breath, the solemn expression settling back on his face. "So then you know _it has nothing to do with you_. And that you have no reason to take it personally, because it's not your fault."

I nod, thinking it over. I've only known it to be a problem for older men, but considering everything Peeta has been through -

I wince and give a heavy sigh. "Because of the things you were forced to do while you were in the Capitol," I say. "Sex is difficult for you now."

Finnick spoke vaguely about _strange sexual appetites_ , the details of which my imagination was too limited to fathom, and I can't imagine how I'd feel about intimacy after having to do unspeakable things with people I probably would have found repulsive. I don't doubt for a second that it would take some time for me to feel comfortable with anyone so much as _touching_ me ever again. I feel particularly fatuous and selfish for having been so insistent on sex the other night, and I feel the heat of embarrassment flush my face, which I quickly hide behind my hand.

"Ah, I really am an insensitive asshole," I groan, my voice muffled behind my palm. Again, I'm hit with the strong desire to ram my face repeatedly into a hard surface.

Peeta gives a nervous laugh and gently tugs my hand away from my face, trailing a cool fingertip across my burning cheekbone. "I probably should have opened a dialogue about this a lot sooner, really. I've become a little vain during my time as a courtier. I let my humiliation get the better of me."

"You thought I wouldn't be attracted to you anymore because of it," I say slowly. I should probably feel a little insulted that he had such low expectations of me, but I don't. It's becoming all too clear how often people have let him down in the past. And I'm not exempt from that fact.

He purses his lips and nods. "It's asinine, but for men...virility is often what defines our strength and desirability. Even though I know better than to assume you'd ever be so shallow as to think that way. Sometimes I think _I_ am, though. I never noticed I'd relied so heavily on it until it was gone. I've never really had self-confidence issues until now. And especially since I was - " He abruptly breaks off, tightly pressing his lips together as if he were about to confess something he hadn't meant to. I hold my breath, tensely staring at him as his jaw flexes.

"You don't have to continue, if you're too uncomfortable," I say softly.

He draws a deep breath and closes his eyes. "No, Katniss, you should know...when I was being tortured, there's...there's a possibility that I was raped."

I clamp a hand over my mouth, feeling the tears spring back into my eyes. That's what the vague comment of having _some marginal control over the matter_ was about. It never occurred to me that during his captivity, he could have been subject to sexual assault as well. I certainly wouldn't put it past Snow's people, and I feel the swell of vengeful justification in my chest at the memory of how Snow finally met his end. I'm actually a little disappointed that it didn't occur to me to participate.

"The...possibility?" I breathe.

"I can't remember. I started suffering blackouts pretty frequently, so a lot of memories are hazy or just missing. I remember being shoved down onto my stomach, my legs were forced apart, and then...nothing." He shrugs, and then reaches up to smooth his palm up and down my shoulder, as I've started trembling. "There's also a very good chance that I _wasn't_. There's no way of knowing. I suppose we could ask Johanna. There's a chance she might know," he says bitterly.

I'm silent for a long moment, forcing myself to take slow, deep breaths. Of course inflicting perpetual pain wouldn't have been good enough for Snow, but he had to go out of his way to rob Peeta of his dignity as well. I want to harm someone. I wonder if any prominent Capitol citizens are still alive, if any of Snow's cabinet have avoided execution and are being detained somewhere so I can specifically take it out on them.

"Someone - " I gasp, but I'm so breathless from my stifled rage that it's an unintelligible wheeze. I choke back a breath. "Someone needs to be held accountable," I say, my voice forcefully even.

Peeta gives a fleeting, wistful smile, as though he knows something I don't. "Don't worry, they were."

I don't ask him to elaborate. I'll take his word on it, especially considering I know all he's capable of. "Have you spoken to Johanna since we were brought back together?" I ask.

Peeta shakes his head. "We wouldn't have much to talk about except our torture. I'd really rather not reawaken those demons. As for whether I may or may not have been sexually assaulted...I'd rather not know. If there's a memory there to resurface, I'd prefer to keep it buried. I can't imagine it would make my...uh, current situation...any better," he says with a slight grimace.

This time it's me that provides the protective embrace, my arms impulsively wrapping around him and aggressively pulling him against me as my lips find his neck. He yields to me and sighs, and I feel his muscles instantly relax as I knead his back. "Is there anything I can do?" I breathe against his ear.

I feel the rumble in his chest as he laughs. "You can keep being patient with me, as you already have been. It's really meant the world to me in light of everything. Maybe if we make new memories together, I can recreate a more positive association with sex. _This_ \- this is good. This is a good start." His arms tighten around me in a light squeeze, and I have to resist the urge to flex my hips forward and rub against him, as desperately as I want to do it.

He reluctantly pulls out of the embrace to pull a watch on a chain from his waistcoat pocket, giving a small groan as he glances at the time. "I've got to meet with the council soon so we can discuss reconstruction ideas. Though I'd much rather blow it off and spend the rest of the evening in bed with you," he says, playfully tweaking my chin in his thumb and forefinger. "The election's being held tomorrow, by the way, if you wish to cast your vote."

I frown, not liking the prospect of being left alone but hating this new development of codependency. I shot an arrow at a room full of Gamemakers. I threatened the president of District 13 with a knife in front of her closest advisors. Now I'm nearly sent into a panic at the thought of letting Peeta out of my sight.

"I'm sure they won't mind if you come along," Peeta says, reading my worrisome expression. "I don't doubt they'd value your input as well."

And so I go with him, despite my significant distaste for human interaction. Everyone is surprisingly patient. I don't have much to say, but at some intervals I'm asked directly what I think of an idea, and I feel genuinely included. There's no denying that Peeta definitely has a talent for this, though. It turns out that Sterling had acquired lots of books previously thought to be lost to history or destroyed in some forgotten ban by one of the many oppressive governments that came before Snow's, and Peeta had studied them all. Chronicles of history that no one alive today would have remembered, mistakes of our ancestors from which we could learn. Everyone falls silent in rapt attention as Peeta speaks passionately and assertively of ancient conflicts - a civil war from the nineteenth century that was a profound victory on paper, but out of the losing side emerged a culture that remained socially oppressive and corrupt for at least the next two centuries due to lack of proper reconstruction after the war, leaving a bitter sense of entitlement and a spiteful hatred in their wake.

My heart sinks at this information. The nineteenth century was an awfully long time ago. In all that time, things obviously only got worse. I wonder if as a race we've reached the pinnacle of our evolutionary potential. I wonder if there's hope for us at all. But Peeta explains ways to reason with the more privileged districts, rehabilitative efforts extended toward the Career districts and the Capitol that would focus on showing them how much Snow exploited them as well. To show them we were all played for fools but are on the same side. Peeta speaks so rationally and with such confidence that I genuinely believe it can be done. He's so captivating that I don't doubt he'd be able to persuade them into compliance all on his own. All he'd have to do is flash that intoxicating smile and that shrewd glance and they'd be under his spell indefinitely.

Or perhaps that's just me.

"A proper education is tantamount to success here," Peeta explains. "This should be our main priority - and extended to _all_ citizens of Panem. There's a reason the nation was compartmentalized into districts whose citizens were predominantly defined by that district's industry. It forces them to focus solely on that industry's trade in schools, leaving little room for more comprehensive education. It's easy to control a population that doesn't know any better. Wars can be fought endlessly to put some marginal sense of control back into the hands of the disadvantaged, but there's no mistaking that knowledge is the most powerful weapon you can give to a person. That's why Sterling secretly collected all those books. That's - "

He gasps as though he's suddenly run out of breath, and he seems to sag a little, bracing himself against the table with one hand, his knuckles white as he pants a couple of times to regain his composure.

"That's why she died for it," he breathes.

His voice is a strained whisper when he finishes. All around the room, heads are nodding in silent approval, Peeta's words having resonated with each of them on a deeply profound level. I'm comforted in the fact that this trait of the old Peeta carried through. His ability to weave an elaborate tapestry with words is just as strong as ever, and I catch myself squeezing my thighs together as his eloquence has apparently inspired that relentless ache between my legs to persist with a rather bothersome intensity.

I distract myself by reaching out and running a reassuring hand over his shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. He abruptly looks to me and flashes a brief smile, instinctively leaning into my touch. I know that words will fail me in his moments of vulnerability, and I know few other ways to comfort him. He seems listless for a moment, then looks back around the table to the commanders and quickly changes the subject, and I know he's only doing it as a distraction. This is his way of coping, throwing himself into restructuring. As though piecing together the broken nation will somehow piece together his broken heart.

As the district commanders begin spreading maps out over the table to plan renovations, I take the opportunity to quietly excuse myself. Everyone seems much too distracted to notice my departure, and this is a subject on which I'd be little help. I take a moment to admire Peeta's determined, pensive expression, his head bent to inspect the maps as he mutters suggestions, and he has that same mysterious intensity he wore when sketching images in my family book. Only when he senses movement from my direction does he lift his head, shooting me a concerned glance as I attempt to discreetly slip away. I give a dismissive wave of my hand, gesturing that I'm fine and to take as long as he needs. We lock eyes for a moment, and I hurry out before he can insist on me staying. I can only squirm in my seat and rub my thighs together for so long in a room full of people before it gets inappropriate and awkward.

I practically fling myself back into our room, in desperate need of some alone time. The sconces have been lit and there's a healthy fire blazing in the hearth, which does wonders to set the mood. My initial urge is to throw myself on the bed and shove my hand down my pants so I can frantically rub out this persistent ache, but I instantly feel the heat flush my face at the prospect of Peeta entering the room any minute and catching me. Not that he hasn't seen me do it before, but those were times when it was at his suggestion, in a controlled environment. Somehow I feel it would be a slight affront to him to catch me doing it in secret, almost as though I were doing it behind his back. Realistically, I don't think he'd be offended, but I'd be humiliated anyway.

Instead I opt for the pretense of a bath, shutting the bathroom door firmly behind me after lighting a few candles for what little illumination they provide. The bathtub is large and deep enough that my hands will be concealed beneath the thick layer of soap suds should Peeta unexpectedly walk in on me. I sink down into the water, up to my neck in jasmine and citrus-scented suds, and I rest my head back as my hand snakes down between my legs, peeling myself apart to find that magical spot nestled between my folds.

I think of his mouth, warm and sure on my throat, on my breasts, teasingly tickling my stomach with a soft bite. His soft, low laugh in my ear as he gloats in how breathless and helpless he makes me. His fingers, strong and nimble, coaxing my nipples awake as he presses his erection against my thigh. His weight pressing into me, pinning me down but making me feel immeasurably safe. His cock, filling me completely, stretching me almost to the point of discomfort, claiming me as his with each gentle, deliberate thrust. My mind easily recalls the low growl of my name in the back of his throat as he took me, and my fingers begin working faster, rubbing that blissful spot with growing intensity. I imagine that look of reverent conviction in his eyes as he would gaze down at me, and soon my stomach is tightening with oncoming release.

 _Not yet_ , he would say to me. He could always tell when I was close, he could see it in my face, could feel the tightening of my muscles. Always so cruelly teasing, drawing it out and delaying my release so that it would be that much more intense. My fingers slow to a lethargic massage, easing up to where I'm barely touching myself. My chest rises with a heaving pant, causing one breast to break the surface of the warm water, mercilessly exposed to the shocking contrast of the cold air. I make a sound somewhere between a hiss and a yelp, and my free hand protectively flies to my breast to cover it. My palm grazes over the sensitive flesh of my nipple, and I begin to idly massage it as well while my other hand maintains a slow rhythm between my legs. I find myself instinctively breathing Peeta's name, imagining it's his fingers deftly teasing my nipple, working an agonizing, fleeting tickle over the sensitive kernel between my folds. I rub small, slow circles around it, picking up speed and slowing back down, and my entire body bows as I fight off the urge to let go just yet.

My mind wanders to that shrewd, cunning smile that I only ever saw on him after he was hijacked. Terrifying, guileful, twisted...and exciting. He wore that smile just before he began his methodical torture of Snow. There was that glint of sharp, daring awareness in his eyes that caused me to shudder every time they fell on me. Not quite the mutt that was brought back to Thirteen, but something else, something just as unpredictable. _Dangerous_. The tendrils of shame begin to curl around my insides as I come to fully understand how much that danger excites me. The tattoos, the perfectly manicured appearance and stylish clothes, that undeniable swagger and an insouciant impudence that challenged anyone to cross him - they were things developed out of defiance. Instead of the weapon-mutt the Capitol tried to create, a hybrid emerged that ultimately backfired in their faces. Kind of like a mockingjay.

And I think I saw the potential for it in him a long time ago.

 _It's just you and me here, Katniss. I could bring a healthy blush to that bottom of yours and no one would hear you cry out_.

I remember the red-hot sting of his hand across my ass, the unexpected pleasure surfacing through the tingle of pain, and my moan almost becomes a scream as I unravel, my body vibrating with the pulses of exquisite release. It's a violent climax, my body tensing as I'm overcome with jolting spasms, the surface of the water around me a turbulent monsoon in time with my writhing. The spasms gradually die down, and I'm left with the sporadic shudders of aftershocks pulsing through me as I sink down into the tub so that the water is up to my chin. The relaxing effect of my climax has given me the heavy limbs of lethargy, and I feel the temptation of sleep beginning to pull me under.

The shattering clap of thunder just overhead jolts me back to lucidity, causing me to thrash about and send water flying in all directions. I've sunk so low in the tub that I inhale water and soap suds in my startled gasp. Frustrated and swearing between choking sputters, I cough out the water that's invaded my lungs and heave myself out of the bathtub, still trembling from the shock of the disruption. I cringe as another violent boom of thunder rattles the very foundation of the house, the windows rattling in their frames. Normally, a thunderstorm would have a more calming effect on me. Before the Games. Now it just sounds too much like a cannon, and I still can't shake the instinct to wonder, _Who died this time?_

Let those be the cannons for Coin and Snow. I think a smile tugs at one corner of my mouth. Maybe it's just a muscle spasm.

I want to be relieved when I furtively poke my head out the door to see that Peeta still hasn't returned and potentially caught on to what I've been doing, but a part of me feels the sinking sensation of dread. Since we were separated in the arena, and in our initial assault on the Capitol, letting Peeta out of my sight has rarely ended favorably.

With the heat of the bath still clinging to my skin and the heady blaze of the fire still burning in the hearth, the room is stifling. I search through the bureau for something better than a towel to wear and come up with a slim-fitting nightshirt with long sleeves, which I hastily pull over my head, then cross over to the window to fling it open. Just before my hand reaches the latch, I freeze in mid-gesture. In the heat of the room, a fog has formed over the glass, and sketched into it is the ghost of an image drawn by a skillful finger - a mockingjay with a dandelion in its long, tapered beak. My breath catches in my throat, and I lightly press my fingertip to the glass, then quickly draw my hand away.

"Oh, Peeta," I sigh.

I'm out the door to go find him before my mind can fully register what I'm doing. I'm already halfway to the study when I finally consider my appearance. Dripping wet hair, a white nightshirt slimmed at the waist with a hemline that doesn't even reach mid-thigh. I'm hardly presentable, but the hour is relatively late and the only illumination in the house is dim candlelight and oil sconces. It's unlikely that I'll run into anyone, but I stick to the shadows anyway.

Just as I turn the final corner toward the study, Dalton startles me to an abrupt stop, and my arms instinctively cross over my chest in some feeble attempt at covering myself. Not that it entirely matters, since the halls are so dim that nothing would be visible anyway, and Dalton seems particularly distracted. Almost as if he's in a hurry to get somewhere. Or get away.

"You...might not want to go in there," he says curtly.

"What?" I breathe.

"He's...not in a good mood." Dalton's eyes shift in the direction of the study and then back to me, and he shrugs. "Or maybe you're the only one who can calm him down. Everyone else has already cleared out." He stands there awkwardly for a moment, clearly deliberating on whether he should stay and accompany me since it's obvious that there's no way I'm _not_ going in there, but then he gives an apologetic shrug and hurries off in the opposite direction.

I'm not entirely sure what to make of this. _Not in a good mood_ could mean any number of things, and my first thought is that he's had another episode, some shiny memory has broken the surface and he's in the throes of a flashback. I could be about to walk in on mutt Peeta at full throttle. But that can't be right. If it was that serious, Dr. Aurelius would be nearby, and Peeta would be restrained instead of left to his own devices. I'm unsure of what will greet me on the other side of that door, but I'm certain it's none other than just general, pissed off Peeta. Perhaps a little abrasive, but harmless. I pause for a moment to compose myself, then defiantly push through the door.

The study's a wreck. An ornate lamp - or the remains of one - lays shattered in front of the hearth. Files and documents scattered everywhere. A statue has been knocked over and its arm has broken off. A plant is upended with soil spilling across the floor, water seeping into the carpet. Peeta has done a remarkable job of trashing the room. Unsurprisingly, the liquor is about the only feature of the room that has remained intact. I cringe at the sound of more shattering glass, and I tentatively take a step toward him, where he's standing at Snow's old desk and looking considerably furious.

"They played us like a damn fiddle!" he snarls as he slams a drawer into the desk, and I'm sure I hear the sound of splintering wood.

I watch him apprehensively, wishing I could subtly announce my presence in some way because I feel like if I speak up it will startle him and make matters worse. I'm about to tentatively call his name when he abruptly looks up, causing me to freeze on the spot, muscles poised to flee at any moment. There's enough distance between us that I could get a good head start. To my relief, he instantly relaxes upon seeing me, seemingly wilting in front of me in shame.

"Katniss, what the fuck," he breathes, and his eyes nervously flit away. He's embarrassed, which doesn't happen often. That's good, at least. It tells me this isn't the mutt version of him, and that he isn't particularly proud of me seeing him like this. "I thought you'd gone to bed," he says, his voice subdued.

"Peeta... _What. Happened._ " I'm in such a cautious state of alarm that it comes out more haltingly than I'd intended.

His eyes shift to meet mine again, and whatever sheepishness was there before is gone now. They've hardened back into that focused shrewdness, and he locks his gaze on me as he draws a deep breath.

"You're gonna want a drink for this one," he growls, nodding toward the liquor assortment.

 _Fantastic_.

I don't hesitate to follow through on the suggestion. Sometimes I think I might have a shorter fuse than Peeta, so whatever he just found out may well result in me burning the entire house down. I grab the first bottle I see, pouring myself a generous serving and downing most of it immediately. It's dark in color and its flavor hints of wood smoke that painfully reminds me of Gale, but it sends a seeping warmth through my extremities that mitigates the chill over my skin, so I pour another glass. After the burn of the liquor leaves me feeling sufficiently complacent, I slowly turn back to Peeta and approach the desk, where I cautiously sit down across from where he's standing.

I solemnly look up at him, scowl already firmly in place. "Let's have it, th-"

I stop short when the yellowed envelope marked _75_ resting haphazardly on the edge of the desk catches my eye. Up close, the flap looks particularly tarnished and ripped. As though it were opened and resealed and reopened. My eyes shift back to Peeta, and he's staring down at me, still furious, but an encouraging gleam in his eyes. He nods once.

With a trembling hand, I reach forward and drag the envelope toward me. Thrown carelessly under it are two squares of paper, and they stick to the worn seal of the envelope as I lift it from the desk. The paper feels frail, and I gingerly pull the scraps apart for fear that they'll disintegrate in my hands. The first slip of paper seems particularly fresh. Modern. It clearly reads that the tributes will be reaped from the existing pool of victors.

The other slip, however, is different. Its consistency is more like that of the envelope, and almost as yellowed. I'm actually convinced that this slip of paper is seventy-five years old. I squint my eyes to read the strange, faded script, feeling myself deflate as my eyes scan across the page.

 _On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that their resilience does not guarantee the safety of their loved ones, the male and female tributes will be reaped from the family members of existing victors._

My heart slides into my stomach, and my limbs suddenly feel like liquid. I might actually fall out of my chair. In one swift movement, Peeta rounds the desk and deftly catches the glass that threatens to slip out of my hand and crash to the floor, then sets it firmly on the desk.

"Prim," I gasp, and I realize that my heart is racing and I'm hyperventilating. Peeta's hand comes to rest at the base of my neck, where his fingers firmly massage my tensed muscles. "She would have been reaped anyway. She would have - it wouldn't have - "

I'm choking too much on my panicked gasps that I can't finish. My hand shoots forward to snatch the glass up from the desk and I anxiously swallow the remainder of its contents. I'd already suspected that the Quarter Quell was much too convenient to not be manufactured specifically for me. We all did. It was an unspoken understanding among all of us that the Capitol breached tribute eligibility protocol, broke promises - and likely many laws - just to specifically target me and my act of defiance. We never imagined we'd be able to prove it, but I don't think a single one of us victors went into that arena truly believing that was the original premise of the third Quarter Quell.

In my act of impulsiveness when Prim's name was first drawn, it didn't occur to me that there would be six more years wherein I'd be incapable of protecting her. Only after my emotions and my actions were exploited by Snow did the possibility of her being reaped again really start to sink in. In a land where odds aren't ever really in your favor, it's not difficult for lightning to strike twice. Seeing it confirmed so explicitly knocks all the wind out of me, leaving me struggling with remembering how to breathe, just as I was that day when Effie read Prim's name off of that dreadful slip of paper. And my panic is over a dead girl. Everything. Everything I've done was useless. It all would have been for absolutely nothing.

"It would have been Leaven's last year," Peeta says softly. I hear the words but it takes a long moment for them to register, and when they finally sink in, I abruptly look up at Peeta's solemn expression, and he's staring vacantly at some point in the distance.

His brother. The middle one, who would have been eighteen, and the only eligible male family member of an existing victor. My sister and his brother. We would have mentored our own fucking siblings. And we likely would have watched them die in the arena. Perhaps Leaven might have stood a chance, being a wrestler like Peeta. It's all just so fucking perfect. I make a derisive sound somewhere between a laugh and a snort at how they might have reaped Gale, him being my _cousin_ and all. Technically he would have been ineligible due to his age, but that certainly didn't stop them from throwing Haymitch's name into the bowl.

Peeta's pressing another glass of the oaky liquor into my hand, and I take it gratefully. I haven't had a drink since I nearly drowned myself in it, and admittedly even the thought of alcohol has made me want to vomit, but right now, it's a welcome reprieve. I want nothing more than to drink myself stupid.

"Leaven nearly volunteered for me," Peeta continues, sipping his own beverage and still staring vacantly into space. "One of the other boys standing near him at the reaping told me about it one day at the bakery, just after we came back from our Victory Tour. He'd started to lunge forward, was about to say it, but stopped. When I asked him about it later, why he hesitated, he only confirmed what I already knew. He knew I'd never forgive him if he did. He knew - "

Peeta cuts himself off, his focus shifting to me and abruptly away again. He leans forward, bracing himself against the desk as he closes his eyes, the crease of a frown deepening in the center of his brow. "He knew. About you. How I felt. He knew I'd never let anyone else go in there with you."

I'm stunned into silence. I've never heard him speak that much about his brothers. I'd always assumed they just weren't that close. I certainly didn't expect them to be as devoted to one another as I was to Prim. I don't know how to feel about his brother being privy to Peeta's feelings for me. Just like I didn't know how to feel about his father noticing my marksmanship on the squirrels I sold him. Or his mother's comments on my survival capabilities. That I might have been a household name to this family is too overwhelming for me to be able to think about it for very long.

I suddenly feel very selfish. This whole time I've been consumed by guilt and retroactive terror over things that _might_ have happened to Prim when she's just as dead now as she would have been anyway, and I've not once given a second thought to the fact that Peeta lost his brothers just as sure as I lost my sister. I don't know what to say to him. Condolences were never my strong point. I've always loathed hearing them, myself. I feebly reach out to touch his hand, and the iron grip he's exerted on the edge of the desk eases up a little.

"What was he like?" The words are out of my mouth before my brain can even really process them. It sounds so frail and disingenuous to me, but despite this, Peeta smiles a little - a sad, wistful little curve to his lips that causes tears to spring to my eyes at the sheer amount of sentiment carried in this one feeble expression.

"A little surlier than me," he says hoarsely, and he abruptly clears his throat. "Where I was kind, he was just. He had a head for fairness - nothing more, nothing less. He extended compassion only where it was deserved. I think he was jaded by cynicism toward our mother a lot sooner than I was. She wasn't as horrible to him as she was to me, but he didn't appreciate the way she treated me, either. Sticking up for one another wasn't a common occurrence, considering she had a tendency to play the victim and try to make it out like we were ganging up on her, which would only make matters worse, but there were times..."

He falls silent for a long moment, swirling the liquor in his glass around and staring down at it as though hypnotized by it. I patiently wait for him to continue, and after an extended silence, I get the impression that he won't. But finally, he draws a deep breath, giving another gruff cough to clear his throat.

"She might have killed me."

His voice is so quiet that I stop breathing just to make sure I catch every word.

"...She was so enraged one day, and I was still recovering from the concussion she'd given me the previous week. Any more trauma very likely could have resulted in me never waking up again. Leaven...he put himself between me and her. Just threw his body in front of me before she could strike me. She'd had the heavy rolling pin, not the lighter plastic one she usually used. The one that could very well crack a skull. I don't think she even noticed. He shielded himself with his forearm, ended up breaking it in two places. It was never quite right after that. It healed oddly. But he saved my life that day. Among other times, too painful to recount. ...And she fucking ended up killing him anyway."

I'm frozen into place, so captivated by his confession that only when I begin to get dizzy do I remember to breathe again. I've never heard Peeta speak so much as a dozen words about his home life. It never occurred to me to ask him. I feel like having heard this, he's offered me a small glimpse of that world locked away inside him that I wondered about every time I'd admire his determined expression as he sketched in my family book. It leaves me hungry to know more, but it isn't lost on me that he might not want to reopen old wounds. He seems just as guarded as me now. When a single tear splashes onto the back of his hand, I'm roused into action, rising up from my seat to pull him into a tight embrace.

He responds stiffly at first, but when my lips brush against his jawline and I whisper his name against his ear, his arm wraps around me to secure me against his chest just as surely as he always did. He presses his mouth against my forehead, the hand not holding his glass idly kneading my spine, deft, gentle fingertips soothing me to my very core. His hand travels up to the back of my neck, gripping it lightly as though bracing me against him, and I stiffen as he whispers against my temple -

"So are you ready for the bad news, then?"

I want to believe he's being facetious, but as I draw back from his embrace to look up into his face, it's still the stone wall of solemnity. All I can think is _That wasn't it?_ as my stomach does back-flips. I think I might be sick. I'm half inclined to tell him _No_ and run from the room, blocking out whatever atrocities might have been waiting for me here and burying them forever, as they should be. After all, they're only the actions of demons that _might_ have happened, and we thwarted them, didn't we? We won. It would make no difference for me to not know.

But despite everything, that defiant voice of curiosity speaks for me anyway, and I say, "Give it to me." I surprise myself with how even my voice sounds in spite of my frantic heart and shaking hands.

He circles back around the desk and does his best to straighten the scattered mess of documents that are spread carelessly as though they'd been flung there in a fit of impulsive rage. He neatly packs them into the folder they must have originally been filed in, and he eases it across the desk toward me, locking intense eyes on me. "Read at your own discretion," he says, a slight note of bitterness in his tone. "The rest of it is scattered about the room if you're curious for more, but what you'll find in there should be sufficient."

I ease back down into my chair and stretch an arm out to gingerly pull the file from the desk, my hands clamping around it with such intensity that I might actually rip it in half. I keep my eyes locked on Peeta's for a long moment, perhaps in an attempt to draw courage from the intensity burning in his eyes, then drop my gaze to the file now in my lap, the edges growing slightly damp and crumpled in my grip. I feel like it might detonate at any moment. I take a second to wipe my palms on my nightshirt, then open the file with a trembling hand and scan the first page. I don't really register what it says, and for a while I'm just mechanically turning page after page, reading words but not processing them. It seems to be a correspondence of sorts, interspersed with diagrams and schematics, dossiers on people whose names I don't recognize. One thing that does capture my attention are the two names I see quite often on the pages - _Alma Coin_ and _Coriolanus Snow_.

It isn't until I see the transcript of a conversation between them that it starts to fall into place for me. A conversation that was secretly recorded by a rebel from District 3.

A conversation that happened eight years ago.

I rifle back to the beginning of the pages, reading back over them and actually comprehending them this time. They're letters, dating back at least a decade. Some are schematics of the tunnels beneath the Capitol, others are blueprints of the grids of various neighborhoods. The dossiers are on Snow's cabinet and closest advisors and security team. Documents and intel that would have to be handed over to his successor after age and illness finally claimed him. The workings of Capitol government that would have to be thoroughly understood by the next dictator that would take his place once his declining health deemed him too feeble to carry on.

"Where - where did these come from?" I whisper.

"Some were retrieved from spies in Thirteen. Others were testimonials from Avoxes who had formerly been the couriers commissioned to deliver these messages but eventually defected. Standard protocol was that couriers were to be executed on sight once they completed delivery, even if they'd done nothing wrong. Neither Coin or Snow could risk any witnesses. These documents were salvaged from Coin's hovercraft. Plutarch must have brought them with him. He was planning on exposing her."

I slam the folder shut and throw it back on the desk, abruptly rising from my chair in the process. It was all a lie. The rebellion, the war, my own fucking image - a smokescreen to facilitate a rise to power that would have happened either way. Snow and Coin were working together. They were in on it together the whole time. I was just a pawn to unite everyone under the new dictator, so that Coin would earn the nation's trust the moment she pretended to usurp Snow's position. The leader of a pretend revolution that was neither needed or useful.

" _Bitch!_ " I snarl, impulsively grabbing my empty glass and hurling it into the fireplace. It isn't enough. I want to break everything, but it would seem that Peeta has already done that.

I wish I'd tortured her. I should have tortured her.

"If it's any consolation, there's a chance she was still alive when I threw her in the fire," Peeta says dryly, as though reading my mind. "Autopsy reports came back from what they scraped out of the incinerator. Her larynx was considerably damaged, presumably from screaming or profuse coughing." He pauses for a moment, carefully inspecting my heaving shoulders and trembling frame, and adds with a touch of directed irony, "Granted, those things could have happened _before_ she was executed, when her hovercraft went down." He doesn't sound entirely convinced, and his satisfied shrug calms me a little.

It certainly doesn't confirm anything, but I feel the unfamiliar rush of satisfaction at the information. It's enough. I draw a deep breath and nod, and Peeta's solemn expression cracks into a gratified sneer. Six months ago, this look on Peeta might have alarmed me. It was the trademark expression of the mutt that tried to kill me. But now, when it isn't directed toward me, I find something mysteriously appealing about it. I'm so reliably drawn to his danger, and I think maybe it's because we're just two sadistic, vengeful monsters gloating in our vindication together. But when I'm with him, I don't feel quite so monstrous. I feel empowered.

I study the shadows cast across his face from the dancing orange glow of the fire, marveling at the angular depth it adds to his expression. The wind howls outside and rattles the windows in their frames, and when the strobe of lightning illuminates Peeta's pronounced stare, my legs are moving before I can even think about what I'm doing. My body aches for him, I need him to know how much he excites me, need to show him how desperately _wanted_ he is, and when I come to stand in front of him, my eyes burning into his in the dim firelight, his hands immediately fall to my waist, their warmth searing through the sheer fabric of my nightshirt and burning into my skin. I haven't realized how cold I've been until his palms smooth over my chilled skin, evoking a pronounced tremble through my body that brings a self-assured smirk to his lips.

Even in the dim light, I know that my nipples are visibly straining against the fabric of my nightshirt. My monthly courses are due this week, and my breasts feel swollen and full and are in desperate need of being touched. I brazenly lean in and press them against him, tilting my chin up just as his lips crash into mine, my mouth opening hungrily for him, biting into his bottom lip and not caring if I hurt him. He makes a muffled, defeated sound into my mouth and hoists me up onto the desk with his broad, warm hands enveloping my thighs, inching the bottom hem of my nightshirt up as his palms smooth over my chilled flesh. One of his hands leaves my thigh and comes up to cup my breast, and I give a heaving shudder as his thumb softly rubs my nipple through the fabric.

" _Nngh_ , Peeta," I moan as my head falls back, and he seizes the opportunity to swoop down and latch his mouth onto my throat.

" _Hmm_. You smell different, Commander Everdeen," he mumbles between teasing kisses to my pulse spot, the tip of his nose grazing over my skin as I feel the heat flush my face at the observation.

 _He knows_. The exotic fragrance of the bath is still clinging to my skin and he knows exactly what I've been doing, but a pronounced twinge warms between my legs at the way he addresses me. My hand slides around the back of his head, my fingers sifting through his hair and gripping just hard enough to lock him in place.

"Say it again," I order through clenched teeth.

His soft chuckle tickles my throat, and he gives me a quick bite. " _Commander_ ," he mutters emphatically, the cadence of his tone reverent and seductive at the same time.

His thumb is still making those maddening caresses against my nipple as his mouth works its way down to my collarbone, and I'm vaguely aware of his other hand snaking underneath my nightshirt, surreptitiously coaxing my thighs farther apart. His fingers dance against the inside of my thigh, inching closer to that throbbing ache but teasingly withdrawing when I flex my hips forward in a desperate attempt to meet his touch. He ducks his head and replaces the thumb on my nipple with his mouth, closing over my breast through the fabric of my nightshirt with a dizzying warmth that causes me to arch my back and press myself harder into him. He worries my nipple between his lips, worshiping it with gentle nibbles before moving to the other, his eyes raising to meet mine with a glint of daring mischief. It's a maddening image, my hand cradling the back of his head as he defiantly gazes up at me with his mouth stuffed full of my breast. A moan of shock and pleasure escapes me when his fingers finally graze against the throbbing place between my legs, and he releases me from his mouth to give a satisfied chuckle.

"Oh, what's this?" he purrs, lightly moistening the tip of his finger in my opening.

I gasp when it occurs to me that I'd neglected to put anything on underneath the nightshirt, and I flush hotly at the thought that the only thing between me and Dalton during our encounter in the hallway was this flimsy piece of fabric. I bury my face in the crook of Peeta's neck, wanting to hide myself from my own embarrassment.

"How absolutely indecent, venturing out in nothing but your shift," he teases, and his fingers trail a steady line back and forth over my slit, ghosting over that kernel of nerves and causing me to shudder against him as a pleading moan dies in my throat. Suddenly, I don't really care about the impropriety of it. I just want relief.

"Peeta..."

"Yes, Commander?" he says, and his voice is no longer a seductive growl, but a gentle whisper as he traces a slow, rhythmic line back and forth over the tender spot between my legs.

I fumble for his belt but he gently stops me, momentarily withdrawing his hand from between my legs so he can restrain my wrists behind my back. I squirm in frustration, but he clamps one hand tightly around my wrists, binding them with just enough pressure to cause a fleeting amount of pain. I couldn't escape if I wanted to.

"Don't struggle," he commands, and his free hand goes back between my thighs, pressing the tip of his finger against that tender nodule of flesh so he can begin massaging it in slow circles.

I feel the quickening of excitement in my chest at his unapologetic dominance, and my pleading whimper dies in my throat as he fits his mouth to mine again, massaging my lips with his just as sure as his finger massages the place between my legs. I make muffled sounds into his mouth as his fingers slide into me, drawing in and out of me with agonizing slowness, and when his thumb continues to circle that tender bundle of nerves nestled between my folds, I actually cry out and I don't care who might hear. I move my hips in rhythm with his fingers, wishing he would release my hands so I could wrap my arms around him and draw him closer, but his grip remains firmly locked on my wrists. There's a strange sense of overwhelming pleasure that comes with the vulnerability of being restrained, and I feel the beginning vestiges of release pooling in the pit of my stomach, tightening the muscles of my thighs.

He releases my mouth from his and drags his lips across my throat, then brushes them over my ear. "If you come too soon, I will take you over my knee and redden that bottom of yours so you won't be able to sit for a day," he whispers.

My body petulantly responds to the threat, and a strangled series of moans escape from behind my clenched teeth as my muscles contract spasmodically around his fingers, torrents of pleasure coursing through my body as I writhe in his grip. I ride out wave after wave of pulsating bliss while his fingers slow to a stop inside me, my hips bucking so forcefully against him that he has to clamp his arm around me to ensure that I don't push off of the desk and fall to the floor. A string of vulgar words spill from my mouth, though no spoken word could ever encompass the rapture of this moment.

" _Hngg_ I fucking dare you," I groan, my head falling forward into his shoulder as the last aftershock vibrates through me.

I want him to do it. I want to feel the sting of his hand across my ass again, I long for the intimacy of the fleeting pain he can inflict. I want that vulnerability of being at his mercy, under his control. I don't care how fucked up that makes me.

If he intends to make good on his promise, he doesn't right away. Instead, he gives a malicious chuckle as he releases my wrists from his grip, and when he circles his arm around my waist to lift me off of the desk, I don't resist. I can't, really, as a heavy lethargy has claimed my limbs and I barely have the energy to open my eyes. I just let him carry me to the couch near the window, and when he settles beside me, I fit my body to his and nestle my ear to the center of his chest, sleepily listening to the slow thud of his heart.

"Still nothing?" I mumble, trailing my fingers along the front of his belt.

"It'll take a while," he says, idly stroking the back of my head. "That you respond so eagerly to my touch really helps, though."

There's a reassuring sincerity to his words, and I know that no matter how long it takes, I'll be patient. I trust him. More than I may have ever trusted anyone else. In spite of his unpredictability, he still somehow offers the assurance of stability, of reliability, and ultimately - of safety. I'm unsure that there's anyone else left alive now that can offer me all of those things.

"Is it really over?" I ask lethargically, my fingers grasping feebly at his chest as sleep threatens to pull me under. "Are we really safe now?"

His chest swells as he draws a slow, deep breath. "As long as people are still alive to remember the war," he answers after a short pause. "But after that...?"

He doesn't finish the thought. But I catch the implication. These things happen in cycles. At least we have the assurance of peace lasting us through the remainder of our lifetimes.

"How do we trust anyone else ever again?" I ask.

Peeta hesitates a moment, then whispers, "We don't."

* * *

A/N: So did anyone catch the Kazuhira Miller/Metal Gear Solid reference I not-so-subtly slipped in there? It actually occurred to me while I was writing this chapter that I've always kind of envisioned Peeta as looking very similar to Kaz, and as I've been playing the crap out of MGSV lately, Kaz's personality has been shining through Peeta a little this whole time and I just now noticed. It's made me consider doing a THG/MGS crossover which ABSOLUTELY NO ONE WOULD READ because it's the randomest crossover ever, but it would entertain me immensely, especially considering the parallels between Kaz and Peeta. Also the Big Boss/Kaz angst has effectively killed my already shriveled, black heart and it's starting to carry over into my writing. I swear I'm trying to end this thing on a happy note.


	16. Rebels in Kontrol (Part Two)

Despite my sympathies for what she must have endured while in captivity, nothing grates on one's patience quite like the announcement of a big, big, big day from Effie Trinket. It still causes me to flinch in preparation for something dreadful. It reminds me too much of _before_. I've learned to refrain from chastising her. Especially since everything she says is accompanied by a thinly veiled monotone, poorly concealed just beneath her usual shrill chirp, as though everything she says or does is just a mechanical routine to hide the hollowness she must feel inside. What little I've seen of her, she's been accompanied by Haymitch, always clutching at his arm as though letting go would cause her to fall apart and collapse to the floor.

It's strange, seeing them together the way they have been. When I'd first walked in on them in District 13, I'd assumed it to be a casual arrangement, or one of convenience. But seeing them around the mansion together - at dinner, or in discussions with the other surviving rebels - their every interaction has been profoundly intimate. There will be moments where someone says a certain word, or a door slams, or someone would jostle her from moving too quickly in her vicinity and she would tense up, that hollow, vacant look clouding her eyes, causing Haymitch to pull her close and brush a thumb over her cheekbone, or press his lips to her temple and murmur things in her ear to gently coax her back. It's something of a shock, seeing tenderness from _Haymitch_. All I can do is try not to stare.

He's seemingly holding her up now as she tries her best to feign excitement for the festivities of the day's election. I'm not even sure if I'm interested in voting. I haven't given much thought to who would be ideal for the job. Granted, _anyone_ would be an improvement on our previous options. What's even more unappealing is Effie's announcement of the party that will be held tonight for the event. District 10 has worked tirelessly on the extraction and processing of resources to accommodate the extended energy window for the momentous occasion. Absolutely _everyone_ will be there, and it will be a _most_ fabulous event. I close my eyes for patience, and Peeta stiffens beside me. I can almost _feel_ the groan dying in his chest.

"Is that exactly, uh, appropriate?" Peeta says, and the apprehension in his voice is very clearly forced. He's trying to stifle his assertiveness so it softens the blow of what sounds like an accusation. Judging by the way he immediately frowns to himself, he knows it's a failed attempt.

Haymitch glares at him from just behind Effie's shoulder, but says nothing. Although he and Peeta have technically exhibited a cessation of open hostility, there's still a palpable tension between them. There's always that warning glare behind Peeta's eyes, that sense of dominance he so keenly asserts now just waiting to break the surface. That so many people have died, so many districts have been destroyed for us to come this far, it feels a little tacky to be throwing an extravagant celebration that will most definitely reek of the Capitol's opulence. The thought of it seems insulting.

Effie wilts a little, and only after Haymitch rubs small circles into the small of her back and presses a kiss to the back of her neck is she roused back to life. The glint of tears in her eyes sends a sear of guilt through my chest, and I subconsciously reach for Peeta's hand, which he warmly wraps around mine.

"It was my hand that selected helpless children to be sent to their deaths," she says in a trembling, hushed voice, a sincerity and conviction in her eyes that I'm not used to seeing in her. "Please. Just do this for me."

I've never seen such solemn emotion conveyed so deeply in her before, and the frantic, pleading desperation in her eyes causes Peeta and me to exchange a concerned glance. Suddenly the idea doesn't seem so tacky anymore. It just makes sense. This isn't about rubbing the Capitol's naive privilege in the faces of the rebels who fought so hard to defeat it. It's the world we claimed for ourselves being officially presented to us in respect. Peeta and I wordlessly nod our assent. Haymitch directs a prolonged glare at Peeta, then gently steers Effie from the room.

To say that I'm not up for a night of dancing and indulgence is a bit of an understatement. I woke up this morning still entwined with Peeta on the sofa in Snow's study, and it would be just my luck that my courses would start when I'm in a white nightshirt with no underwear and who knows how much distance between me and the nearest bathroom. Luckily I'd made it to the toilet in time to hemorrhage what felt like the majority of my womb on the spot, but the dull cramps have permeated all the way through to my back and every movement makes me feel ten years older than I really am. Starving myself in the past weeks has made an already unwelcome monthly routine even more unbearable, making me more fatigued than usual. I want to find my mother and see if she has anything that might help, but encounters with her are so rare now since she's thrown herself into her work as a method of coping.

Peeta eases me back into bed as soon as the door closes, despite my protests that we should probably be productive. Doing _what_ , exactly, is up for debate, but I feel like keeping busy may be the only way to prevent spiraling into another bottomless pit of depression. His broad, warm hand is so pleasant when he places it over my lower abdomen though, and when his fingers begin to gently massage my aching womb, I close my eyes and let him. I want to be embarrassed, knowing he hasn't had a whole lot of female influence in his life what with growing up with two brothers, but when I voiced my concerns about being _gross_ in my current state, all he did was roll his eyes and fix me with his best chastising glare. _Really, Katniss, if you think I'm going to be squeamish over a little blood, you don't know me at all._

I suppose he had a good point.

"Hmm," he muses now, his fingers gently pressing over a spot just inside my hipbone. "Your left ovary's a little swollen."

I raise an inquisitive eyebrow, and he gives a soft chuckle.

"Being a hired companion inevitably results in getting acquainted with human anatomy," he says with a shrug.

For a fleeting moment, I muse at how the old Katniss might have recoiled at Peeta speaking so candidly about his time as a prostitute. Perhaps I would have worried over how many women he may have bed while here, but for some reason, I'm not threatened by it now. His expertise has proven useful.

"Is that serious?" I ask apprehensively.

"Shouldn't be," he says with a small shake of his head. "It's pretty common. You'll just experience some discomfort. It should subside when you stop bleeding, but if it'll make you feel better, we could go see one of the medics."

"No," I say, keeping my eyes on him and feeling an overwhelming surge of affection for him, though I can't explain why. "No, I trust you. Just keep doing what you're doing, I think it's helping."

He laughs again and gently nudges at my hip. "Here, turn over. Let me rub your back."

That he's had such little positive female influence in his life, and with little exposure to the nuances of female biology, I have a profound appreciation for his remarkable understanding and compassion for even the less pleasant aspects of it. I let him turn me over onto my belly and I bury my face in the pillow, making soft, muffled noises as those warm, practiced fingers slide underneath my shirt and continue kneading my spine. He's so good at it. His fingers are so incredibly skilled, always knowing the perfect ways to touch me. I squirm under his touch, flexing my hips just enough to grind into the mattress to relieve the tension building between my legs. This time of the month never fails to make me frustratingly sensitive down there.

"You know, an orgasm can mitigate the cramping," he says, and though there's a playful suggestiveness to his tone, it's shadowed by the practicality of experience. "The contractions of the cervix facilitate the relaxation of the muscles in the womb, added to the chemicals released in the brain that act as a natural pain reliever, it's an instant relief for the discomfort."

I press my hips harder into the mattress, moaning another muffled sound into the pillow as his fingers tease my lower back. " _Hmm_. Are you offering?" I mutter.

The bed shifts underneath me as he leans forward to brush his lips over my ear. "Always," he whispers. His fingers briefly dip beneath the waistline of my pants, brushing over tender flesh before withdrawing again and returning to my spine. "Do you want me to take care of it? It'll be quick and sweet," he promises, and his voice has taken on a huskiness that I can't resist. Something about the way he says _quick and sweet_ makes my heart jump into my throat, that electric spark of excitement radiating from the center of my chest and ending between my legs.

I immediately flip over onto my back in silent assent, and I cover my eyes with my forearm, hiding the embarrassment that must show clearly on my face at the prospect of allowing Peeta to even go near me down there during this time of the month. I feel his fingers brush against the sensitive flesh just below my navel as he delicately unfastens the button of my pants, then slowly drags my zipper down.

"Through your underwear or direct?" he asks softly.

"Direct," I say after a short pause. Being in the Capitol has awarded me the luxury of the sleek cotton inserts we never had back in Twelve or Thirteen, where we were at the mercy of bands of linen to line our underwear, hoping it didn't seep and cause a major embarrassment. I can at least let Peeta touch me down there without it resulting in an inconvenient mess.

I feel the heat of Peeta's mouth on mine and I reflexively part my lips for him, his tongue gracefully sliding along mine as his fingers slip underneath the hem of my underwear. I moan into his mouth when the tip of his finger grazes over that throbbing spot in my center, and I flex my hips upward when he begins to rub, softly at first, then slowly gaining pressure and speed. His tongue moves along mine with the same rhythm his finger makes, and when my stomach begins to go taut, he pulls out of the kiss and places a soft bite on my nipple through my shirt. I arch my back, pressing harder into his mouth, and his lips tighten over my nipple as my hips squirm underneath the movement of his finger, rapidly drawing me closer to the edge. I clench a fistful of the sheets and squint my eyes shut, feeling the pressure building up behind my navel and grinding myself against Peeta's finger, and when the explosion comes he stifles my cries with his mouth, almost forcefully pushing his tongue against mine.

I fall limp against the pillows, panting with my forearm still over my eyes as Peeta's hand lightly cups the junction between my legs, warming the ebbing ache there as the aftershocks ripple through me. In less than sixty seconds, Peeta has made me helpless with one finger. When the spasms finally stop and my body stills, he gently withdraws his hand from my pants and refastens them, then settles beside me and goes back to gently massaging my abdomen.

"Better?" he asks.

I heave a deep sigh. The cramps and the dull ache in my back have certainly subsided. "Much," I breathe.

I'm just drifting off into that blissful sleep that always comes with the afterglow when I'm startled awake by my prep team bursting through the door, followed by an apologetic-looking Portia. They're laden with multiple garment bags containing our wardrobe selection, and with a sinking heart I realize this is going to be my life forever. The camera crews and publicity will follow us indefinitely. It's uncomfortably reminiscent of being a victor, exploited by the celebrity of being a killer. I glance over at Peeta and he's just as nonchalant as ever, having long ago grown accustomed to this. He quickly becomes absorbed in the different sets of cufflinks Portia presents him, musing about what would complement his pocket watch the best without looking too flashy. It all comes so easily to him.

I sit back and try to lose myself in the inane chatter of my stylists, hoping it will distract me from the shadow that looms over my heart. I keep repeatedly glancing toward the door, waiting for Cinna to walk in any moment. The third time I catch myself doing it, I feel those emotional walls I've carefully constructed begin to crumble down, leaving me breathing heavily as I focus every ounce of my resolve on not crying. I'm distantly aware of Peeta's hand enveloping mine, his soft, subdued voice directing our stylists to give us a minute, and then I'm alone with him, staring frantically into those blue eyes as if they're my only anchor to sanity. Which they are.

"Katniss, you really don't have to do this if you don't want to," he says, warming both of my hands in his.

I shake my head and try to tug my hands back, but he clamps his fingers around mine, rooting me to the spot. I hastily glance away. "No, I can't do that to Effie. We promised."

He sighs and the corners of his mouth tighten. " _You can make it up to her_. If you really feel like you can't - "

"I'm gonna have to get used to this stuff some time, aren't I?" I ask, and there's a bite of impatience that slips into my tone. I briefly close my eyes in apology and shake my head. I think maybe I'm hurt that this all comes so naturally to Peeta when I'd rather have the ground open up and swallow me whole any time the slightest bit of scrutiny is thrown my way. I pitch forward, my head going straight into his shoulder, and he doesn't hesitate to catch me in his arms. "How the fuck do you do it?" I whisper. "How do you deal with all this?"

He chuckles softly against my ear, and I can already feel myself coming undone at the way his fingers so deftly dissect my spine. I'd wrap my legs around his waist and ride him until I'm raw this very instant if I could.

"You learn to detach yourself from it," he says. "You're just playing a role. No matter how unbearable a situation, you learn to find something - anything - to latch onto. I did this a lot with clients, actually. It could be something trivial, like a gesture someone makes, or a scent that reminds you of something pleasant. Something familiar. And you just hold onto that, use it to anchor yourself. There will always be alcohol too, but I'd recommend _indulging responsibly_ ," he says with a note of chiding playfulness. His heavy-ringed hands frame my face, and I gradually feel my resolve building itself back up again.

Portia and my prep team return, and when they're done applying the final touches to our hair and makeup, it's hard to believe either of us ever fought a war. Peeta looks exceptionally dashing with his eyes subtly outlined in charcoal, enhancing the dazzling effect of that piercing blue gaze. Soon we're descending the staircase to hordes of camera crews and the most prominent Capitol personalities, along with the rebel commanders from the districts, who have all cleaned up rather nicely. Admittedly it is a rather stunning spectacle, and I manage to put on a charming smile for the people who raise their champagne glasses to us as we pass. The evening is mostly the two of us doing our best to indulge the camera crews while fielding the same questions ad nauseam, to the point where our every response begins to sound rehearsed from having repeated them so many times.

When we finally catch a break, we take the opportunity to seclude ourselves near a banquet table and scarf down whatever appetizers and booze we can before a lurking photographer can catch us in an unflattering photograph. Seated on a bench in an alcove beneath the stairs, we're just hidden from view behind the banquet tables, and Peeta playfully feeds me strawberry tarts. I shamelessly eat from his hand, suggestively holding his gaze while nipping at his fingers.

I abruptly scoot away when Haymitch appears out of nowhere, the heat creeping up my cheeks as I press the back of my hand to my mouth in an attempt to appear composed. I immediately realize something's wrong when he makes no effort to say anything snide about our suggestive display, and I find myself tensing in anticipatory panic when he eases himself down on the other side of Peeta. He doesn't say anything for a long time, and I watch Peeta's annoyed expression melt into mild apprehension. I quickly scan the room for Effie, and I spot her looking rather awkward and uncomfortable near the grand piano as Portia and a small group of escorts from the other districts attempt to include her in the conversation. Haymitch watches them in silence for a moment, leaning back against the wall as though the mere act of sitting up is too exhausting.

"Her name was Daisy," he says finally, and his voice is hoarse. "We found out she was pregnant two weeks before I was reaped. I'd resolved that there was no way my child was growing up without a father, so I knew I had to come back. Snow knew about the baby. He had her killed anyway. They actually stabbed her in the stomach for good measure, just before they shot her in the head. Gave her a few minutes to mourn the loss of our child while she bled out."

I feel my heart slip into my stomach, and I catch myself instinctively leaning away from Peeta in anticipation of an outburst as I watch the color drain from his face. Catching Peeta off guard is a very difficult thing to do. I don't think I've ever seen him speechless. But now, his body tense and his mouth slightly open, he is bereft of words for quite possibly the first time in his life. My first instinct is to respond with a bitter comment about how Peeta's baby bomb during the Quarter Quell very likely clinched the deal for Snow in that case, but I immediately decide against it. After everything, I've come to find an uncharacteristic appreciation for gallows humor, but now is not the time.

Peeta lets out a long sigh and slowly brings his hands up to wearily rub his face. "Ah fuck, Haymitch," he groans, his voice muffled behind his hands, which he's cupped over his nose and mouth. "... _Fuck_."

Peeta shifts uncomfortably, shaking his head. It really is a rare sight, seeing him at a loss for words. I think about how all these years, Haymitch has effectively lived the life of a bachelor, how he'd kept his relationship with Effie a secret and only recently felt safe enough to make it public, and how protective and avoidant he's been with his personal relationships in general. How he must be intentionally abrasive just to make sure no one gets too close, just to make a conscious effort of not even creating the illusion of benign camaraderie with anyone. I can't even fathom having a child at such a young age, much less losing one. It's dreadful that Haymitch even felt it necessary to tell this to us, especially considering how guarded he's always been. As much as my heart goes out to him, I can't imagine he has any motive for indulging this information other than to make us - or, more specifically, Peeta - feel like shit.

"Why are you telling us this, Haymitch?" I ask tersely, the silence having stretched too long for my comfort.

"Because what Peeta said to me the other day was likely very true," he says grimly, "but it stung all the same. I just felt I at least owed him the reason behind why it hurt me so deeply. I can't imagine the nature of our relationship will ever extend beyond silently disliking each other, so I figured I should clear the air on what is and isn't off-limits whenever he decides to chide me for my poor decisions."

Peeta sighs again and closes his eyes, keeping his hands cupped over his nose and mouth. " _Fuck_ , Haymitch," he says again.

It's probably horrible of me, but I can't help but feel a swell of annoyance toward Haymitch. If it was truly that important to him for us to know, he would have talked about it a long time ago, especially when it was relevant. A heads-up from Haymitch would have been nice, rather than letting us milk the baby angle for all it was worth and in turn only further endanger our lives. Even a passing comment of, _Gee, when I was a victor, having a pregnant girlfriend certainly didn't protect me or her, you should probably have a convenient miscarriage_ would have been a lot better than dropping what is very clearly a guilt-trip on an already emotionally compromised Peeta. My first instinct is to respond with the fiery vitriol I'm so known for, but I decide against it when I realize Haymitch will likely drop the same tactic on me at some point. When the music quartet begins playing the opening tunes to a very familiar song, I take the opportunity to bounce up from my seat and extend my hand to Peeta.

"Peeta, listen! They're playing the Valley Song," I say with forced cheer.

This seems to rouse him from his vacant shock, and he slowly blinks up at me, the slightest of recognition stirring in his expression. He then bolts into action, rising up a little too abruptly to take my hand.

I look back to Haymitch with the sincerest, most sympathetic expression I can manage in my annoyed state. "Haymitch, I'm truly sorry that happened to you. You can rest assured that Snow got his comeuppance for his crimes."

It doesn't take much coaxing to drag Peeta to the dance floor. Once out of Haymitch's sight, he earnestly wraps his arms around me and buries his face in my neck, a defeated groan dying in his throat. "I'm an asshole," he mumbles.

I make a sound somewhere between an ironic laugh and a sigh of exasperation. "Maybe. But he's a bigger asshole for using that against you. It's horrific what was done to Haymitch and the people he cared about it, but it certainly doesn't give him the right to emotionally extort you like that."

Peeta brings one hand up to the back of my neck and gives it a firm squeeze, his arms tightening around me. I realize that we've stopped moving, and we're centered on the dance floor in an intimate embrace with possibly a dozen cameras on us, but I don't care.

"You're much too merciful," he says, pulling back to fix me with a sad, appreciative smile. "I should have figured it out beforehand, honestly. It's really not that difficult to imagine. And when I said what I said, in that moment, I wasn't thinking about what circumstances might have brought him to where he is now, all I wanted to do was hurt him. Guess I at least succeeded on that front."

"Yeah, well. He broke your face because you made him spill his drink. I'd say you're about even."

This elicits a hearty laugh from him, and we continue our dance, small steps in a slow circle. Not really a dance at all, but just embracing each other under the illusion of moving so it doesn't become too awkward in front of all these people. I think everyone's too drunk to care anyway. It's pleasant and surreal and oddly comforting, and I'm just beginning to appreciate what Peeta meant by _finding something to latch onto_ to make the experience bearable. It reminds me of our pre-Quarter Quell innocence, when we danced together during our Victory Tour just like this. Even though I'd already known by then that we'd failed, I was still in my idealistic dream state of running away, and Peeta's presence is just as comforting now as it was then.

The moment is interrupted when Peeta's fingers suddenly dig into my shoulder, clutching at me as though I'm the only thing anchoring him to this world. His breath catches in his throat and when I draw back to inspect his face, there's faint alarm there. I frame his face in my hands and force him to look at me, and when his eyes focus on mine, they're blurred with tears.

"Fuck," he breathes, abruptly releasing me as he brings a trembling hand to his mouth. He's shaking and panting heavily as though he can't catch his breath, and I urgently pull him away to a secluded corner out of sight of the cameras. He seems like he's going to collapse any second.

"Peeta, talk to me," I urge him. "Is it another flashback?" My hands are firm on his shoulders to steady him, but if he were to have a relapse, I'm certain I'd never be able to restrain him.

He shakes his head and sags against the wall behind him. "No," he pants, and he gingerly wipes at his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, artfully doing so without smearing his eyeliner, as though he's had a lot of practice doing it. "I...Not really. Crispin and I danced on that very spot once. One of the valets passed us too quickly just now and the smell of the champagne...the memory hit me out of nowhere."

I feel a lump rise in my throat at the way Peeta's voice breaks at the end, and I think I might cry myself. "Oh no," I gasp, and I instinctively pull him against me. I hate seeing him so broken. I hate it even more that I never got to officially meet Crispin, because I feel like I would have genuinely liked him, as pure-hearted as Peeta describes him. It makes me want to mourn the loss of someone I never knew.

"I think I'm gonna lose it," he mutters, and he locks his arms tightly around me.

I furtively glance over my shoulder, scanning the room for a trained camera lens or prying eye, neither of which seem to have relented in their merciless scrutiny of us since our arrival. Most of the camera crews have tired of our over-rehearsed answers to their questions and have diverted their attentions to my mother and Mr. Mellark. I can't help my scoff of impatience at how most of the questions are focused on their romance and not on their contributions to the very resistance we're here to celebrate. Liberation or no, the Capitol will never outgrow its shallow nature.

"Let's ditch the party," I say, turning back to Peeta when I'm convinced we're safe from surveillance at the moment. "They've gotten enough pictures and interviews from us."

Between my hunter's instincts and Peeta's carefully-honed assassin's skills that have made him a rather impressive master of stealth, we're able to make it to our wing of the mansion without being spotted. We're almost home free when we round a corner and are met with a little girl not much younger than Prim would have been, escorted by what looks like a caretaker or maidservant of some sort. I vaguely recognize the young girl, but I can't immediately place her. Peeta, however, stiffens beside me and stops so abruptly that he might have been punched in the face. He exhales sharply as if the wind's been knocked out of him, an almost panicked sound escaping his throat as his face registers alarm, sympathy, and suspicion all at once. His eyes dart to the caretaker, and they hold each other's gaze for a prolonged moment before she nods once, as though in encouragement.

Peeta hesitates, then cautiously moves forward, the same way Gale used to approach a dying animal, and drops to one knee in front of the girl, bracing her by the shoulders. "Do you know who I am?" he asks quietly.

She nods slowly. "You won the Games with her," she says, briefly looking to me, then lowers her voice and adds, "You broke the rules because you love each other so much."

I see the vaguest hint of a frown as I watch Peeta's profile and he gives a grim nod, quickly forcing that frown into a smile that looks so tragic, I feel the threat of tears stinging my sinuses.

"That's right," he whispers, and he coughs quickly to clear his throat. He's staring at her intensely now, his profile sharp and solemn and giving his appearance a hardness I'm not accustomed to seeing.

"Is it true that you have a robot leg?" she asks, and despite Peeta's solemnity, her tone has an edge of subdued enthusiasm.

Peeta presses his lips tightly together and nods curtly. "Yes, it's true."

"Can you really kick people through walls?" she presses with a slight note of urgency in her voice.

He huffs out a nervous chuckle and nods. "Uh, yeah, something like that."

"Do you have to plug it in to charge it?"

Peeta hesitates, inspecting the little girl with a deepening crease in the center of his brow, clearly thrown by her adamant questions. He takes in a short, swift breath, then slowly exhales and shakes his head, forcing himself to maintain a serene, encouraging smile. "No," he laughs. "Engineers have discovered how to harness the natural electrical impulses in the central nervous system and convert them into a source of energy. That's what powers the mechanics of my leg."

Her eyes grow wide. "That's fascinating. I told Grandpa that I wanted to build robot parts like your leg when I grow up, but...he said that was something only people in District 3 were allowed to do. But it's different now. I can do whatever I want. I've even built my own devices with scraps from old machines. Would you like to see them?" she asks, a hopeful lilt to her voice.

I quickly glance away as I see the tears pooling in Peeta's eyes, his trembling hand coming to cover his mouth as he nods. He rubs his palm over his face for a minute before answering, a feeble gesture to compose himself in front of this little girl who I now understand can be no other than Snow's granddaughter.

A granddaughter we might have condemned to death in another Hunger Games.

"Maybe tomorrow," Peeta says thickly, and I can tell he's struggling to keep his voice even. "You want to be a robotics engineer when you grow up?"

She nods eagerly, and something between a whimper and a groan makes its way halfway up my throat before I cough quickly to mask it. Thankfully I don't think anyone notices.

"Listen to me," Peeta says, and her face falls at the darkness in his tone. "When you're older...and you come to understand everything that happened here, and the part I played in it, and you...if you feel the need to get even...you come find me. Do you understand?"

All that registers on her face is confusion, but he doesn't let go of her until she nods. There's no telling what sugar-coated story she was told about what became of her grandfather, or the nature of his crimes in the first place. It's clear that Peeta's analysis of Capitol children was pretty accurate - they're in no way prepared for the grittiness of what the Hunger Games truly entailed, not like we were in the districts. Either Snow's granddaughter has lived an entirely sheltered life, or she's so mentally shattered by the events of the rebellion that she's gone off the deep end. And by the looks of it, we had her entire family killed, and now she has no one.

"You're really going to let her come after you?" I ask once we're back in the solitude of our room.

"I'd owe her that much, wouldn't I?" he says, and he sounds so broken and tired.

"Snow deserved everything he got," I say defensively.

Peeta's shoulders sag a little as he sighs, his back to me. "He did. I'm not challenging that. I'll never regret what I did. _Not ever_. But that doesn't make her any less entitled to her revenge...should she need it."

"Peeta, what if she intends to kill you!" I hiss.

He turns on me, and his face is still grave and sincere, but devoid of the fragility I'd seen in it moments before. There's only a courage and determination there that causes my heart to shudder erratically in my chest. "Then I'll be prepared," he says evenly.

His face softens at my horrified expression, and in an instant, he's closed the distance between us and pushed me up against the wall. He kisses me with the same passion he did that day on the beach in the arena, when we were convinced it would have been one of our last, feverishly biting down on my bottom lip as if it's the only thing to quiet an insatiable hunger, like a dying man gasping for air. I want to protest, to question what I understand as no less than a concession to suicide, but I'm reduced to making a muffled sound into his mouth when he pushes his tongue against mine. My fingers grasp feebly at his shoulders as I search for the resolve to resist him, to make him listen to reason, but he grasps both of my hands and pins them to the wall, and the way his thumbs slowly caress the insides of my wrists, any sense of willpower I had is dissolved in an instant.

I'm breathless and dizzy when he finally pulls away, my lips feeling swollen and bruised and aching for more. I'm panting and my legs feel unreliable, and I'd certainly slide to the floor if Peeta wasn't holding me up. I'd berate him if I had the energy, but his mouth descends upon my throat and it's all I can do to remember how to fucking breathe. I finally concede to defeat, letting my head fall back to enable the delicious heat of his mouth enveloping my pulse, so mesmerized that I barely register the fleeting pinch of his teeth. He will always ever be the seducer. I think this habit has become so inveterate to him that he'll never break out of it. It's as frustrating as it is exciting, and while I recognize the thinly-veiled tactic to distract me, I can't find the fortitude to care.

Peeta leans in close, his lips tickling my ear. "For what it's worth, she probably _won't_."

* * *

My head is fuzzy and slightly pounding when I wake to dim grey sunlight falling through the curtains, and I try to recount how many glasses of champagne I had the night before. I have foggy memories of Peeta slowly undressing me and carrying me to bed, leaving me panting and sighing in a half-swoon as his lips tortured every inch of my exposed flesh. Sharp bites followed by tender kisses, the fleeting pain dissolved in pleasant warmth, slow and sweet and agonizing as I felt the throbbing ache of bruising give way to the creeping tingle of pleasure. I was reduced to incoherent writhing and panting beneath his mouth as he sucked red marks into my skin with his teeth, making me delirious with arousal before making me shatter over and over again with those deliciously precise fingers massaging between my legs.

 _Come for me, Katniss. Show me how much you enjoy it.  
_

I smile to myself as I remember husky words breathed against my jawline, and I wince as my fingertips idly brush over one of Peeta's merciless love bites gracing the tender flesh below my navel. I risk a glance down at my body and see that several of the angry red welts make a patchwork of my skin, but thankfully he didn't leave any that couldn't be carefully concealed with clothing.

My fingers stretch out in search of him but the space next to me is empty. I have a hazy memory of a shower-fresh Peeta placing a damp kiss on my temple before tucking the covers safely around me some time earlier. He's in high demand now and likely had some business to tend to with one of the newly elected officials, or possibly even the recently announced President Paylor herself. A trip to the study finds it empty save for Haymitch, however, who seems to be making it a personal goal to clear it of its extensive selection of fine spirits within the week.

"Where's Peeta?" I ask.

Haymitch makes a sour face. "Said something about a new tattoo," he grumbles, then grabs a bottle seemingly at random and shuffles out the door, leaving me alone in the room.

The power has been intermittently coming on and off since last night, and a television mounted on the far wall reports the progress of the wind farms in District 10, the volume turned down low so I only catch every few words. Images of the Dunes flicker onscreen as a Capitol reporter tries to look as dignified as possible while being windblown and sandblasted in the middle of the desert, the giant structures looming in the background behind her as a ticker at the bottom of the screen announces the times of the new energy windows that are now up to three times a day. They expect consistent power by the end of the week. The image on the screen switches to the vast blue seascape of Districts 4 and 5, where the massive structures seem to be growing straight out of the water as a reporter announces the progress there as well. Most of them aren't finished, and they're surrounded by freighters carrying the equipment. I shudder as I think of the people who have to assemble them. It seems a remarkably dangerous job, and I have an immense gratitude and respect for whoever they may be.

I finally tear my eyes away from the television and inspect what's left of the liquor, selecting bottle after bottle and giving each one a quick sniff before I find the herbal, pine-scented spirit that Peeta offered me before the execution, then carry it with me over to Snow's old desk and lower myself down into his old chair. It feels oddly empowering. Someone has been in here recently to tidy up the chaos Peeta made, and Snow's desk now looks conspicuously bare. Rifling through the drawers finds them empty as well, and a quick glance to the fireplace finds it swept clean. Chances are, all evidence of Snow's tyranny was destroyed, the slate wiped clean for President Paylor to carve a better history for Panem. I'm strangely optimistic. Peeta and I both ended up voting for Dalton in the election because we'd come to know him so well, but I worked with Paylor before and got to know her well enough that I don't question her suitability for the role. She's trustworthy, and passionate. And fair.

I idly take a drink directly from the bottle, staring in a half-daze at the open bottom drawer near my feet. I stare at it for a full minute before I realize that the bottom panel I'm looking at doesn't match the depth of the drawer when viewing it from the side, and I slam the bottle down on the desk so I can lean down and press my fingers against what is obviously a false panel. A couple of tentative presses against the edges and it slides back, revealing a small device that looks like a remote. I gingerly pick it up and turn it over, accidentally pressing one of the buttons in the process and jumping in my seat as a hydraulic hiss sounds from somewhere behind me.

Situated at the back of the room is the walk-in humidor I've not paid much attention until now, and there's a gaping door inside where there had previously been a wall. A soft glow of blue light emits from within, and before I even realize I'm moving, I'm on my feet and headed for the hidden room, only reaching back and grabbing the bottle of liquor as an afterthought.

I find myself in what is clearly a surveillance room, surrounded by dozens of screens showing various video feeds with numbers in the bottom left corners. It doesn't take long to figure out that they're dates and coordinates, identifying the district and the sector within it that the feed monitors. Some of the screens are dancing with static, and I calculate the areas that were hit the heaviest by bombing during the war. District Thirteen is conspicuously absent. District Eight yields nothing but dead air. A lot of District Twelve does as well. Only one feed remains from my home district, and in the grainy, unsteady image of desolate, soot-stained landscape, I recognize the newly-patched hole in the fence nearest to where the Hob used to be. The place where Gale first kissed me.

My knees buckle as stars creep into the edges of my vision. I firmly set the bottle down on the desk in front of me as my other hand flies out to brace myself to keep myself from collapsing to the floor. Of course this is how Snow had been watching us. This is how he knew every intricate detail of my life in Twelve, even after the camera crews and reporters left. He very likely sneered at me from this very spot as he watched us coming back from our hunt. I vividly remember that day, right down to the warmth of Gale's lips to the bright scent of oranges clinging to his skin. I'd forgotten how profound that moment had been to me then. As much spite as I feel toward Gale now, I feel the need to cling to this memory, to lock it away somewhere safe with all of my other good memories, of which I have so few. I _don't_ miss him. I _refuse_ to miss him. I _will not_ cry over his absence.

But the tears spring into my eyes anyway. I frantically mash buttons on the control console in front of me, pounding them with the heel of my hand until the one remaining image of District 12 disappears into static. The images on some of the other screens have either shut off or switched to other feeds, but one particular image quickly draws my attention. It's a familiar, unnerving room, not much unlike the one in which Peeta tortured Snow. The date in the lower left corner is from a few months back. Occupying the room is a man I don't recognize in a Peacekeeper's uniform.

And Peeta.

He looks significantly bruised and broken. Lacerations cover his naked torso, some of them so deep I can see the exposed tissue beneath. He's not quite _emaciated_ , but nowhere near his typical muscled physique. His eyes are hollow and sunken, and he hangs his head with the abandon of someone who has given up. He doesn't even struggle against the restraints binding his wrists as he slouches in the interrogation chair. There's blood soaking the left leg of his pants, about where his prosthetic would meet flesh, and his leg is hanging at an odd angle, much like the way it did when the EMP caused it to malfunction. I get the dreadful feeling that they attempted to detach it from his body, unaware that it's surgically fused to nerves and bone.

I vaguely realize I've stopped breathing. This is my cue to run from the room, to press the button on that little remote in Snow's desk drawer and seal this dreadful room and its dirty confessions behind me. But I can't tear my eyes from the screen, and my feet are planted to the spot. With one hand reaching for the button that clearly indicates the speaker volume, my other pulls the chair out from the desk, and I settle myself into it as I jab firmly at the button until the recording is audible.

" - matter how much you love her, you'll talk. Eventually they all talk," the Peacekeeper seethes.

Peeta doesn't even cry out as he's roughly yanked up from the chair and dragged over to a basin filled with water. My hand flies to my mouth to stifle the cry that escapes me, though I know there's no one around to hear me. The Peacekeeper violently shoves Peeta forward and holds his head underwater, and after an agonizing full minute, he yanks Peeta back up by the hair, gagging and choking back grating lungfuls of air as he regurgitates the water from his lungs.

"Still nothing?" the Peacekeeper asks.

Peeta manages to gasp out a feeble " _Fuck you_ " before he's shoved right back under again.

Hand clamped firmly over my mouth, I continue watching, the Peacekeeper holding Peeta under for longer intervals each time, only to yank him back up to no answers. After ten minutes of this, it's unclear if Peeta is even conscious. He'd undoubtedly collapse to the floor if the Peacekeeper didn't hold him up. It's a wonder they didn't end up killing him, and it seems as though the interrogator is now toying with a corpse merely for the sport of it. I hold my breath each time Peeta's head is shoved under, testing myself to see if I could go that long without breathing. I fail every time.

Just when it seems Peeta has checked out for the day, the interrogator pulls Peeta's head back, hand still roughly gripping him by the hair, and presses his lips against Peeta's ear in a disturbingly suggestive manner that hints at the sexual abuse he endured while in captivity.

"You know we could just fuck the answers out of you," the Peacekeeper growls, and I cringe at the way he runs his tongue up Peeta's neck.

Peeta's eyes snap open then, and something distinctly changes in them. A darkness creeps into them, and his brows gradually come to rest more heavily on the bridge of his nose, giving him that fierce, predatory gaze I saw on him so many times when he'd just been brought back to Thirteen. Glacial. Calculating. Murderous. I'm vaguely aware of the gooseflesh that crawls over my skin as I succumb to the violent shudder that claims me. I know beyond a doubt that I'm watching the initial birth of the mutt they sent back to me. This is quite possibly the very moment the transformation from baker to monster occurred.

Teeth clenched and breathing heavily, Peeta answers with a malicious grin, "I think I need another bath."

Even his fucking voice has changed.

The Peacekeeper becomes enraged. He continues to shove Peeta's head underwater over and over, and Peeta comes up coughing and laughing each time. Finally, after either growing bored or frustrated, the Peacekeeper relents and violently throws Peeta across the room, where he collides with the wall and slumps face down onto the floor. He's seemingly unconscious, and the Peacekeeper hesitates a moment, then tentatively crosses the room and stands over Peeta's prone figure, and I have the dreadful inclination of knowing exactly what he's considering doing. There's the sound of pants unzipping. A rustling of clothing as the Peacekeeper roots his hand down the front of his undershorts.

And then Peeta lifts his head. Stares the Peacekeeper straight in the eye, that chilling, sociopathic glint frosting over his blue gaze, and says in a low growl, "I am going to kill you. I will not be merciful. _It will not be quick_."

The Peacekeeper hesitates. Laughs, but it's a shrill, nervous sound. "Whatever helps get you through it, boy."

A malicious grin twists Peeta's lips. "Am I lying?"

The feed abruptly cuts off and is rendered to static.

My entire body is paralyzed in my seat. I can't even will the strength into my arm to reach for the bottle of liquor in front of me, which I desperately need right now. I feel cold and I'm trembling uncontrollably, and I think I might be sick. I focus on breathing slowly, swallowing hard to force the bile back down my throat as I eye the waste bin just two feet away from me should I need to vomit.

"I eventually did end up killing him, if it makes you feel any better."

I jerk so violently that I actually jump a considerable distance up from my seat before crashing back down into it. I abruptly swivel around to a disturbingly calm Peeta, who is nonchalantly leaning against the door frame with a neutral expression, his hands in his pockets. His face holds nothing but his usual serene compassion, and his voice is subdued and soothing. No trace of the malice that was so evident in the video just moments before. Just gentle, delicate Peeta.

"I got to most of them, actually," he continues, keeping steady eyes on me. "At least, the ones Snow didn't get to first after they defected or he realized they were a liability."

I gasp out a string of startled expletives and Peeta gives a soft little laugh as he approaches me, holding his hand out to help me up. I feebly accept it, and he effortlessly pulls me up and into his arms, his palms rubbing over me to calm my frantic heart.

"You shouldn't have seen that," he whispers against my temple, his arms gentle and protective around me as he strokes my hair.

"How did you do it?" I ask after a long moment, finally finding my voice.

"Hmm?" he hums idly, his hand pawing gently at the small of my back.

"How did you kill that man?"

Peeta takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, hesitating as though he's deliberating on whether he should tell me or not.

Then, in a calm, forcefully even voice, he continues. "I found out where he lived from a loyal client. I picked the lock to his apartment and waited for him. Then I cut off his hands and cauterized the wounds so he wouldn't be able to resist, and wouldn't bleed out too quickly. And over a period of twenty-four hours, I slowly drowned him. Capitol investigators officially declared his death an accident. Guess he must have taken too many barbiturates before his evening bath and slipped under, poor soul."

I snort into Peeta's chest. "And accidentally cut off both his own hands in the process?"

"A _damn_ shame, really."

"And when you say you ' _got to most of them,'_ you mean..."

"I killed them all. One by one." After an extended silence, he continues - "Probably the most gratifying part of all was they eventually caught on to the pattern of who was being picked off. Everyone involved in our capture and torture lived in perpetual fear of when I was coming for them. Who would be next. I made a point to draw it out just to let the anticipation kill them before I did."

I take a couple of deep, measured breaths as I process this. "And Snow let you get away with it?"

Peeta laughs again. "Well it's not like he had much choice. He still needed leverage over you. I exploited that. He did school me quite well on that front. War and politics are all the same, Katniss. You use your opponent's own weapons against them. It's the quickest way to their defeat."

I can't help but smile. I feel a stir of excitement at Peeta's calculated brutality, and I think no one else in the world could be quite as graceful and civilized about killing as he can. The man who will murder you slowly if you hurt him and do it with a flourish and a charming smile.

And I love him for it.

* * *

The next week brings a flash blizzard no one would have expected so close to spring, leaving the windows almost completely whited out as various stewards rush about the house to tend to the myriad fireplaces. Peeta and I seize the excuse to spend most of our time in bed, feeding off of one another's body heat. I'm shocked to find out that his entire right lung and two of his ribs had to be replaced with synthetic, biomechanical materials because the bullet that went through him pretty much destroyed those parts of him beyond repair. He explains this to me when I first see his latest tattoo, which spans his right ribcage and is an intricate cutaway rendering of his new lung and ribs - a strikingly realistic illustration of what he would look like inside if someone were to tear away the flesh covering it. The parts look mechanical and man-made; disturbing, yet grotesquely beautiful. Peeta makes a joke about how if anyone tries to drown him again, the synthetic lung will hold up a lot better under duress. I don't laugh.

It certainly sounds different, as I discover upon resting my head on opposite sides of his chest. On his left side, his breathing sounds normal. But on the right, when I press my ear to his chest, I hear the faint sound of machinery, not much unlike the measured sound of the respirators they use in hospitals when a patient can't breathe on their own. Presumably he's able to withstand a much higher concentration of airborne toxins now as well, so if we were to all be poisoned through the ventilation systems, he'd be the last to drop. It's darkly reassuring.

The electricity is almost constant now, giving us the luxury of the mansion's central heating system, which I hear humming continually in the background. To my surprise, television programming hasn't experienced any outages in the storm, and I find myself idly flipping through newly established channels to try and curb my boredom. It's strange, not seeing every single frequency inundated with propaganda for once. Of course there's always at least one channel showing a rerun of our Hunger Games as a sort of tribute to our accomplishments in overthrowing Snow's government, but they're highly edited, showing virtually no killing and mostly focusing on the growing bond between Peeta and me. An attempt to focus on the positive.

It's the first time I've really watched our Games since we were forced to recap them in the Quarter Quell. I feel a creeping sense of panic as they replay the scenes in the cave. At the time, I'd been so worried about putting on a convincing display of romance and how powerless I was to help him that I couldn't really appreciate how frighteningly close to death Peeta really was. Of course I was aware that the situation wasn't good, but only now, as far removed as I am from that moment, do I really understand how dire those moments were. That really should have been it for him. At the time, I'd found Peeta's insistence on me kissing him to be something of a vague annoyance, thinking he was just being romantic or trying to play the cameras. Only in hindsight do I understand he was convinced it would be his final chance, a desperate final plea of the dying. _I'm much better, really. Can I sleep now, Katniss?_

Something about the way he says it makes it sound like he hopes he doesn't wake up again. I feel like a fist has clenched around my heart, and a pitiful sound squeaks out of me at how desperately tragic he sounds. I impulsively grab the remote and swipe at the surface to banish the scene. I land on a channel that's airing a memorial presentation of one of Sterling St. Claire's old performances, which is a welcome alternative. I'd never gotten to see her perform, and it's a delightful spectacle of acrobatics and impossible choreography to intricate, exotic music that I can feel resonating in my very bones. All of the dancers are so stunningly beautiful and flawlessly synchronized with one another, and I'm hypnotized by how impossibly geometrically perfect their dance is. In their elaborate costumes and masks and painted faces, it's almost difficult to tell who is male or female.

"Crispin always used to come to life during performances."

I'm really beginning to miss Peeta's noisy, heavy footsteps.

" _Damn it_ , Peeta," I gasp, pressing my hand over my frantic heart as I whip around in his direction.

"Sorry," he says with a guilty shrug, coming to sit next to me on the edge of the bed and reaching up to smooth a soothing palm over my back. "I really don't mean to startle you. I should get into the habit of making my footsteps more conspicuous."

I lean into him, savoring his warmth and immediacy as my heart calms. "You can tell which one he is?" I ask.

Peeta nods, staring wistfully at the screen. "There, second from the left," he says, pointing.

"How can you tell?"

A sad, adoring smile lights across his lips. "I just know the way he moves. You can particularly tell on his illusion turns. His were always unique. And his jumps are higher, more fluid. See how it looks like his feet rarely ever touch the ground? He was always profoundly feline in his movements."

I actually _can_ tell, now that it's been pointed out. His jumps are so catlike. I've never seen a person move like that, possessing a gracefulness that's almost erotic in nature. I feel like there's an expressiveness to the lithe movements of his body that no words or facial expression could ever convey with such poignancy, vibrant and emotional and raw. "He looks...flexible," I say after a short silence, wincing as I realize how perverted it sounds upon saying it aloud.

Peeta responds with a low chuckle. "He was."

His voice sounds thick, and I chance a sideways glance at him, a twinge searing through my chest at his twisted expression. He looks so mercilessly in pain, his lips pressed tightly together as his brows knit in a heart-wrenching display of helplessness, and I reach up to lightly touch his face. He abruptly looks down and leans into me, his arm drawing me close. He's trembling, and looks a lot like I do when it's decided that it's going to be one of those _bad days_.

I hastily swipe at the remote again and the channel lands on a news report of a Peacekeeper found dead in his home. I wince at the grisly stills of the man's flayed back, and a shrill sound dies in my throat when I recognize the man's face. It's Romulus Thread, the Peacekeeper who beat Gale within an inch of his life after being caught with a wild turkey. When the shot changes to a dandelion painted in blood on the bathroom mirror, I slowly close my eyes. Peeta stiffens beside me and slightly leans away, and I can feel his eyes burning into me, waiting for my reaction.

"Let me guess," I whisper, "I wasn't supposed to see that."

There's a slight pause, an irregular draw of breath. "I'd appreciate if you didn't tell Gale about it," he answers quietly.

I take a deep breath. Exhale slowly. I don't foresee any correspondence between me and Gale, so that's a promise I can definitely keep. But I feel a swell of gratitude for Peeta, all the same.

"Thank you," I whisper.

* * *

I lose track of the weeks. Beetee stops in at some point with a software update for Peeta's prosthetic, along with Snow's granddaughter - _Aurora_ \- trailing behind him. She's been attached to him ever since he arrived in the Capitol, subjecting him to an endless barrage of questions and constantly peering over his shoulder whenever he has some kind of technological device in his hands. She and Peeta make small talk while Beetee links Peeta's prosthetic up with a tablet he never seems to put down, and Aurora takes the moment to proudly show us the various devices she's put together from old circuit boards, holographic glass, fiber optic cables, and any other scrap she could find from defunct technology. I must admit, they are pretty impressive, and I can't help but think that she shows incredible promise. Beetee informs us she can work out electronic schematics like a veteran engineer. I begin to feel a growing sense of panic at what will become of her, who will care for her since we executed any remaining family she had.

I grow listless and bored. My distaste for the Capitol still hasn't ebbed, even though the city has undergone a profound transformation. Peeta shows me his favorite nightclubs, and we drink and dance and for a few hours a night, I'm able to lose myself in the glamour of it. We inevitably run into Echo, who is now sole proprietor of Sterling's clubs. Regardless of her overnight promotion to mistress of Capitol nightlife, she still doesn't find it beneath her to jump behind the bar and help out when her staff is _in the weeds_. She slings drinks with a precision and ease that reminds me a lot of Crispin's dancing. Peeta thanks her for saving his life, and she responds with a dismissive shrug and a deft palm-spin of her cocktail shaker, deflecting by asking what we're having. She's as avoidant as we are when it comes to talking about the war. Instead, we smoke richly flavored tobacco from a hookah and drink until we can't feel anymore, and for a while, it's easy to pretend that the careless abandon of Capitol parties is our life.

But in the wee hours of the morning, after we've stumbled home and the numbness of inebriation begins to wear off, the listlessness returns. I still associate this city with displeasure. Too many bad memories here. I can tell that Peeta had planned on staying, having hired a housekeeper for his townhouse in preparation for making a home for us, but after too many consecutive sleepless nights of me roaming aimlessly about the rooms and glowering at its opulence, Peeta reluctantly gives in to returning to Twelve.

I'm not sure what I expected. The district isn't quite as desolate as it was upon my last visit, and most of the rubble has been cleared away, but scorch marks and soot still stain the landscape. The earth has finally softened enough to bury the dead, but a lingering stench of decomposing flesh and charred earth still hovers about the district. It's so pronounced that Effie lasts about a day before returning to the Capitol, and I don't blame her. She couldn't bear the smell even before death was added to the mix. She and Haymitch agree to continue their long distance arrangement.

The mines are filled in and the fire pits extinguished. Sinkholes start popping up around the district, and emergency crews have to come in and rope them off so they can begin filling them in as well. The land is cultivated for tobacco, which already promises to turn Twelve into a remarkably lucrative district, especially with Peeta's face on half the cigar ads in Panem.

Mr. Mellark returns with us. My mother doesn't. After extensive coaxing, he couldn't convince her to return, even for a brief visit in the name of closure. He'll eventually be joining her in District Four so they can raise Aurora together. Having made the decision not to have any children of their own - partially out of respect for Peeta and me, so that we'd never be faced with the awkwardness of sharing a blood sibling - they made arrangements to adopt her. My guilt is marginally relieved at the news. I'm at least reassured that she'll have a more promising future with them than she would have had otherwise.

Peeta and his father rebuild the bakery together, and in turn, their relationship. I accompany them to what's left of the Justice Building so they can rifle through old blueprints, swallowing the tears that threaten to consume me as I look around the ruins of the building. No one could have survived. I can't help but imagine the cleanup crews hauling Madge's charred body out with her parents. I distract myself by listening to Peeta and his father exchange mundane comments as they draw up any documents that survived the fires. At some point, Peeta finds an old book with yellowed pages that documents the genealogical history of most of the merchant families, and finds out that the Mellarks were once Jewish. I don't know what 'Jewish' means, but it seems to be a subject of intrigue to Peeta. Mr. Mellark admits that he still practices, although in secret, since all of the old religions died out centuries ago.

Watching them bond together brings a bitter ache to my stomach, making me wish my own father could still be here. Wishing Prim could be here. Peeta notices my growing ennui and coaxes me out of it every evening, always offering the comforting warmth of his arms, brushing his lips over my temple and cheeks. But I see that hollow, distant look in his eyes too, sometimes. Twelve is too mundane for him. As traumatic as it must have been for him to be sold to multiple clients, he misses the thrill of his Capitol life and it shows. I feel horrible for dragging him back here. But he never complains.

One night, in a momentous disruption to the lull, I feel the vaguely familiar press of Peeta's erection against me. A moment passes of me instinctively pressing back against him in my sleep, rubbing my bottom against him before I realize the significance of the occasion and wake with a start, flipping over so I can shake him awake. His initial response is one of panic, thinking my urgency is the result of some threat, but when I nudge my hips forward in silent suggestion, he abruptly looks down and shoves his hand down the front of his shorts in disbelief, giving a delighted laugh as he wraps his hand around his length, but abruptly stays my hand when I reach down to touch him.

 _I haven't felt this in a really long time, let me savor the ache for a minute. ...Tease me a little, will you?_

It's a reasonable request, but the impulsive, demanding side of me considers disregarding it when I entertain the idea that it could possibly land me over his knee with a few swift strokes of his belt across my ass. The teasing foreplay lasts all of about three minutes before he curses under his breath and flips me over onto my stomach, his hand on my hip to guide me back against him. This is all for me. He always preferred to be able to see my face when we were intimate, but this has always been my favorite position and he knows it, and I have to appreciate his impeccable memory and selfless nature. He makes me turn over the second time around, slides his hand into the small of my back and holds me against his chest, gently thrusting into me with his forehead pressed against mine, just the way he did that very last night before we went back into the arena. My body grew unaccustomed to him in the time we were apart, and the pain is gratifying. I missed this. I missed _him_.

He brings me to climax over and over again, like he's making up for lost time. Like he's making up for all those times I had to do it myself and then some. The sated exhaustion makes my head spin, and still his practiced mouth and fingers won't relent, inflicting pleasure I never knew was possible. And when he breathes a passionate _I love you_ against my ear as he empties himself inside me, it brings tears to my eyes. Three months ago I never would have dreamed of getting him back. I'd resigned to having lost him forever, and being caged in his strong, protective arms as though he's afraid I might slip away any moment is such an overwhelming relief that I find myself crying in the afterglow, causing me to turn into the pillow in shame at how much of an emotional wreck I've become. I'm afraid he'll think he's done something wrong, but he's just as sympathetic and understanding as ever, coaxing me out of the pillow and into his chest, holding me there as he mutters soothing words against my hair until I drop off to sleep.

A dreadful realization hits me the moment I wake, and I'm dashing out of bed and toward the phone to call my mother about what I should do to prevent an unexpected pregnancy. As soon as he learns the cause of my distress, Peeta laughs and tells me not to panic, and I'm initially annoyed by how dismissive he's being when the concept of having kids absolutely terrifies me.

"Katniss," he says gently, gathering me up in his arms and pulling my resistant body against his chest as his hand smooths calming circles over my back. "Remember what I did for a living. You really didn't think Snow would have taken that risk with us, did you?"

It takes me a moment to register what he's implying, but suddenly it clicks. "You can't...they gave you something to make you infertile," I say, and my observation is carried on a sigh of relief. _Of course_. I close my eyes and sag against him, grateful for the morbid convenience of it.

"Not permanently," he says. "It will wear off in about six weeks if you wanted to start working on kids."

I think the disdain is evident in my face, because his light expression falls into one of understanding. " _Ah_. You don't want kids." His inflection is light but infuriatingly neutral, making it difficult for me to ascertain his feelings on it.

"Did _you_?" I ask tentatively.

He's silent for a moment, as though this is the first time he's really given it serious thought. "I don't know, it always seemed like the proper thing to do. Maybe because that's what convention always dictated. It always seemed like the only viable option to live an acceptable adult life, but now I wonder...if that was only encouraged so they'd always have subjects for the Games." His face darkens, and I don't miss his slight lip curl of disgust before he presses his lips tightly together. "You know, I...I can't realistically see myself raising children at this point. It seems a little selfish, really, when there are already so many children out there right now who lost their parents to the rebellion. You may have something there," he says thoughtfully. "Perhaps we _shouldn't_ have kids."

This surprises me. Peeta is nurturing to a fault, and I get the impression I've made him feel obligated to make some sacrifice he'd never intended to make. "You really mean that?" I ask doubtfully. "You'd really forgo having children just for me?"

He makes a short, exasperated sound that ends in a small laugh. "Well, it wouldn't be _just_ for you, but...I'm not ignorant of the fact that it's a much bigger sacrifice to have children when you don't want them than to not have children when you do. Honestly, Katniss - it's your body, I'm not going to force you to give it up for something you don't want to do. That would be egregiously fucked up, and I'll have no part in it. If you don't want kids, then we won't have kids," he says with a carefree shrug. As if it's the simplest decision in the world.

He pauses for another long moment, his face unreadable as he thinks it over, and then he nods slowly. "Maybe it's because we're still young, and who knows, we may change our minds - but right now, the thought of bearing children just seems more daunting than anything else. It would be irresponsible. Perhaps we should just help the kids at the community home who lost their own parents." A flicker of darkness crosses his face before he gives another firm nod, as though he's decided. "I could really make some improvements there. Someone's got to watch out for those kids to make sure they're not abused."

And he does. He goes to the home daily with fresh baked goods and books to read to the children, all the while using it as an excuse to keep a sharp eye on the caretakers there and keep them in line, educating them on proper disciplinary action and child-rearing. It's a lot easier than it would have been before the war, since Greasy Sae is among the staff there now. He makes significant donations to the home to make sure they're always clothed and fed. And after he and his father finish building the bakery and Mr. Mellark leaves for District Four to return to my mother, Peeta has some of the orphans come and apprentice under him so they can help run the shop after they age out of the district's care. I feel such an overwhelming stab of affection for how Peeta has given them a chance they otherwise wouldn't have had.

In taking extra precaution to ease my paranoia of having any _accidents_ , my own dose of contraceptive arrives on the train from the Capitol. Peeta carefully lifts the lid off of the package, revealing a slender hypodermic needle nestled into the foam-lined casing inside. I nervously sit on the edge of the bed, my stomach giving a puzzling twist of excitement as he snaps on a pair of latex gloves.

"Lie back," he says softly, placing a hand on my shoulder to gently guide me back.

His gloved fingers brush against my stomach as he pulls the hem of my shirt back to expose the smooth planes of my belly, and his eyes lock on mine when I feel the cold sting of an antiseptic swab a couple of inches to the left of my navel. I close my eyes and a small moan escapes me when I feel the stick of the needle in the soft flesh of my stomach, eliciting a small laugh from Peeta. Not a judgmental one - more like a _knowing_ one. As though this doesn't surprise him at all.

"You know, I can have some twenty-gauge needles sent from the Capitol if you'd like to explore that kink a little further," he says softly.

My eyes snap open and I inspect his face, looking for some sign of insincerity, but there's no glint of humorous teasing there - only a serene patience. Like it's the most normal thing in the world to be addressing casually. I feel a shameful twist in my chest at how he refers to it as a _kink_ , but his gloved thumb is gently rubbing over the tender spot where he's just injected me and it's making me lose my head a little, so I merely close my eyes again and turn my head to the side to hide from my own embarrassment. My breath hitches when I feel the warmth of his soft lips replace his thumb, placing a sweet kiss on the puncture mark and causing me to immediately reevaluate how much I want to genuinely consider the offer.

"Is that...uh, something that a lot of people practice?" I ask nervously.

"Mmm. Not _a lot_ ," he mumbles against my stomach, brushing another soft kiss against the tender flesh there. "But enough that I wouldn't consider it particularly _deviant_. I have experience in needle play so I know how to do it safely, for what it's worth."

 _Of course he does_. I hesitate, still refusing to look at him, but I finally give a slow nod.

"All right then," he says idly. "I'll have them sent on the next train."

There's something strangely erotic about being touched by Peeta's warm, experienced hands through latex gloves. I discover unexpected pleasure in lying back and letting him stick me with needles. There's something so controlled, so methodical about it - the routine of a cold antiseptic swab, lovingly rubbed across my skin, his voice low and soothing as he instructs me to _take a deep breath, relax, let it out slowly_ \- then an oddly therapeutic stick followed by the warmth of his mouth. Sometimes a minimal amount of blood is drawn, which he gently licks away with a tantalizing sweep of his tongue.

It's a sufficient distraction. There's always the creeping threat of ennui lingering over us, but we self-medicate with sex and discovering new kinks. It's the only coping mechanism we know. We're supposed to be talking to Dr. Aurelius regularly, and I know Peeta has been because he keeps relaying the doctor's requests for me to answer my phone. I don't tell him that on one of my recent bad days, I'd ripped the damn thing out of the wall to stop its incessant ringing.

Some days it's difficult for me to even get out of bed, in which case, Peeta doesn't pressure me, but climbs in next to me where we stay for the entire day. He never could quite shake his nocturnal habits, so spending the entire day in bed isn't that much of a dealbreaker for him. He tends to 'keep watch' at night, since he's going to be awake anyway, and admittedly it _does_ make me feel a little safer. The nightmares still come, but he's always there to offer the comfort of his arms and his soothing voice, murmuring reassurances in my ear. I'm humiliated that sometimes my nightmares are about him in his hijacked state, hurling insults and obscenities at me in District Thirteen. I wake to his arms pulling me against his chest, and my first instinct is always to fight, still confused as to where and when I am, and when I finally snap out of it I always catch the wounded twist to his face as he reminds me that I'm safe.

"I was always in there, somewhere - fighting to get out," he explains distantly one night. "I remember every vile thing I said and did, like I was watching the world through someone else's eyes, but powerless to stop it. It was a constant struggle of trying to break free, but every time I broke the surface, _he'd_ always shove me back down. He was stronger than me...until he wasn't. But I'm back now, Katniss. And I'm not going anywhere. I am never leaving you again. _Not ever_." _  
_

One day a bleary-eyed Haymitch clambers through our front door, carelessly letting it slam behind him, to which Peeta wheels around and reflexively throws a knife at his head in the amount of time it took to blink. Luckily his assassin's reflexes gave him just enough time to register the situation and adjust the trajectory of his throw just before the weapon left his fingers, causing the blade to land in the wall just centimeters next to Haymitch's face. It's a reminder that as disturbingly calm as he is all the time, Peeta can still kill you in a heartbeat, because the programming will always be there, irrevocably hardwired into his brain.

Peeta starts making a conscious effort to take it easy on Haymitch. Haymitch stops slamming doors. He starts raising geese. They make an infernal racket that I'm convinced is the most annoying sound in the world, and I wonder if he did it to specifically annoy us. Peeta attempts to reach out to him as an extended apology for having been so aggressive and unforgiving, but the man tends to shut himself in his house for days on end, only emerging to buy liquor and meet Effie at the train station. We resolve to give him his space.

My pearl goes missing. I try not to let it bother me, since Peeta is here with me now and I don't need to hang on to this trivial little talisman anymore, but it still gets to me a little bit. And then when Buttercup appears on my doorstep days later, limping and matted with twigs and blood, it threatens to unravel me entirely. I attempt to clean him up and groom him but I eventually can't even see what I'm doing through the blur of endless tears, so Peeta guides me by the waist to the couch and tells me to lie down while he tends to the cat, whose mewls nearly match the pitch of my sobs. After being sufficiently patched up, he makes a painstaking trek up the stairs on his three good legs only to scratch and whine at the door of Prim's old bedroom, and despite us repeatedly picking him up and physically removing him from the spot, he still returns, as though she'll open the door and let him in any minute.

I try locking myself in my own bedroom, but Buttercup's whines still carry through the door, causing me to dart back downstairs and rifle through the closet for my old hunting gear and head for the woods. I haven't really felt a strong desire to go back there and I'm unsure if I ever planned on returning, but I desperately need to be somewhere else and the woods are my only option.

My marksmanship surprisingly hasn't deteriorated, but my trap skills have. After several attempts at making a simple snare and failing repeatedly on a hook trigger, I throw everything, including my knife, into the brush in a fit of rage and collapse to the ground in tears. I keep thinking it would be so much easier if Gale were here, who could construct a snare in his sleep. I either pass out or am lost to catatonic grief because when I finally register another lucid moment, the sun has already begun to set. As I pull myself to my feet, I realize I'd collapsed right near my old meeting place with Gale, and a powerful twist surges through my chest at the palpable feeling of _absence_. I half expect him to show up now, ready to assess the daily catch, and it twists the invisible knife in my chest a little deeper.

Frantic and dazed, I stumble back to the edge of District 12, so clumsy and shaken that I wrestle with the fence on my way back through, awkwardly entangling myself with the wire and coming away with several jagged scratches on my arms and stomach. I don't remember the walk back to my house. I don't remember climbing up the stairs and collapsing on the floor in Prim's old room. All I register is the front door slamming open and Peeta's swift, precise footsteps as they approach me, both of his hands cradling my face as he gently tilts my head toward him and urgently whispers my name. My mouth tries to form a response, but nothing comes out, and I vaguely hear him cursing under his breath as he gathers me up in his arms and carries me into the bathroom, where he deposits me on the edge of the tub so he can begin running hot water for a bath. He turns to me as the tub fills, his expression solemn as his hand gingerly reaches up to carefully pluck twigs and leaves from my hair.

"You wanna tell me what happened?" he says softly.

I open my mouth to answer, but all that comes out is a strangled sound, followed by a blur of tears. My head drops forward and I cover my eyes with my hand, my shoulders heaving sporadically with dry, empty sobs.

"Okay, okay," he soothes, smoothing my hair back and running his palms up and down my shoulders. "You don't have to talk. Let's get you cleaned up."

I let him undress me and lower me into the tub, where he tends to my minor scratches and delicately washes all the blood and grime away. I get the impression he's done this kind of thing before, his hands are so practiced and gentle with each laceration. He shampoos my hair in complete silence, and I retreat into a blissful daze as he massages soap into my bruised, cut flesh, and once all the blood and soap is rinsed away, he's offering his arms to lift me out and into the protective shroud of a fresh towel, then carries me out to the bed and settles himself behind me. I sit numbly as he carefully combs my hair and weaves it into a simple braid, his hands meticulous and steady as he gently tugs at my scalp. It's oddly peaceful, and I feel some fraction of my distress ebb a little.

"How did you learn to braid hair?" I ask suddenly, and my voice sounds small and frail, almost childlike.

He laughs softly as he secures the end of my braid in an elastic and leans in to place a light kiss on my neck. "I stared at the back of your head everyday for eleven years, Katniss. Somewhere along the way I was bound to reverse engineer it."

This causes me to give a weak laugh of my own, and I lean back into his chest, savoring his warmth and the pleasant sensation of his lips still resting against my neck. There's a prolonged silence as I'm lulled into a hypnotic state by the steady beat of his heart, but I don't quite drop off to sleep. The echoes of past trauma keep jumping out from the recesses of my mind, causing me to jerk back to reality every few minutes until I finally turn in to Peeta and bury my face in his neck.

"I can't hunt anymore," I confess. "I can't live the Capitol life. I don't know what to do. I hate this."

He's silent for a long moment, and I'm vaguely aware of his jaw flexing against my temple, an idle habit he has when he's thinking over something particularly complex. I rise and fall with his chest as he takes a deep, thoughtful breath. "I think we were expected to win the war and then just go back to normal," he says distantly. "But we are warriors. There is no _normal_ for us. We can't just...do everything we did and then be expected to play house for the rest of our lives. I really don't think a life of domesticity is the most suitable ending for people like us, Katniss."

"So what, then?"

Another momentary silence. "We travel," he says with a conviction that suggests he's already thought about this at length. "A constant change of scenery could be therapeutic. There's still so much of Panem we haven't seen, when you think about it. We only took the guided tour of the districts as victors. But we're free to do whatever we want now. There's a lot more to see and learn out there."

It certainly wasn't the answer I'd expected, and Dr. Aurelius is surprisingly supportive, agreeing that it's a splendid idea. He explains that for people with our history of trauma, stability only feels suspect, and inevitably leads to restlessness and stagnation. Taking risks and staying active are the only ways we might find peace. Fortunately the apprentices Peeta picked up from the community home are diligent and skilled enough by now to run the bakery without his guidance, so we book our travel arrangements for an extended tour of the districts. Greasy Sae agrees to check in on our houses and keep the dust from accumulating while keeping a watchful eye on Buttercup, even though his hunting skills are sharp enough to keep him fed indefinitely.

The day before we leave, Peeta comes home with a suspiciously wolf-like pup that Thom and Bristel found in one of the caved-in areas of the mines. It had miraculously survived a fall through a sinkhole with only a few scratches, and they were reluctant to release it back into the woods on account of its ambiguous nature. One look at it and I recognize it for the wolf-dog hybrid that it is, around twelve weeks old. Just old enough to start taking on hunts.

By lunchtime, I've named her Jet, after the stone her coat resembles. As a token of gratitude for our hospitality, she proudly presents us with the carcass of one of Haymitch's geese, which we discreetly roast for supper. We don't tell Haymitch. He doesn't notice that his flock has decreased by one. Buttercup perches atop the cabinets and glares down at us in contempt, much to the amusement of our newly acquired canine.

It takes some convincing, but after some heavy coins are pressed into the palms of the attendants, they allow us to bring Jet onto the train. She's rowdier than a normal dog and will take some firm training, but it's nothing I can't handle, and we manage to keep her under control during the trip. Playing with her keeps me occupied, and for a few hours, I almost feel normal. I tentatively reconsider my disdain for hunting, entertaining the idea that it might not be so dreadful in the wilds of a new district with a new hunting partner by my side. With the proper training, the dog will be useful. It makes me wonder why it never occurred to me to get a dog before.

My spirits are considerably dampened, however, when the train pulls into the familiar square of District Two. I recognize it well. I glare over the rim of my rocks glass through the window of our compartment, at the very spot on which I'd forfeit my spleen to a bullet. But that's not what concerns me. What concerns me is that I'm not sure the district is big enough to put enough distance between me and the last person I want to see right now.

Admittedly I'd been so caught up in the anticipation of something new and different it hadn't occurred to me that our itinerary would eventually lead us to the last district I'd want to visit. Naturally, it would be the first on our agenda, and I get the feeling it wasn't an accident. Peeta is all preoccupied innocence as he contemplates his wardrobe, and though he's cool and collected, I know he feels my contemptuous glare as I wait for an explanation. He waits precisely two minutes - just long enough to make me think his obliviousness isn't feigned - before he regards me from the corner of his eye and exhales sharply through his nose.

"Alright then, let's have it," he says quietly. His serene demeanor infuriates me even more.

"What are you doing?" I ask, narrowing my eyes at him. "What are you playing at here?"

This time, he frowns. Not the sympathetic frown that he seems to have always reserved for me, but rather an annoyed one. "Gale is my friend too, you know," he says, and there's a barely perceptible edge of hostility to his voice. No, not hostility - _defensiveness_. As if he was expecting resistance, but more than that - as if he felt guilty for it somehow. Like he was prepared to have to justify a friendship I didn't know about.

My chest contracts with a wealth of conflicting emotions, but before I can begin to consider sorting them out, the words that make it to my lips are " _Since when?_ " It sounds strikingly like an accusation. And maybe it is.

He takes a short, swift breath, and the sigh that ensues is just as short. "We've all been through a lot together, Katniss," he says.

" _He killed Prim,_ " I snap.

Peeta abruptly turns to me then, shock registering on his face, his mouth slightly open. I may as well have slapped him. I feel some small victory at having laid this card on the table, and I wonder if Peeta will reschedule our entire trip upon this revelation alone. But then he closes his eyes and groans, cupping his hands over his nose and mouth as he tilts his head back for patience. His shock isn't at the true nature of the bombs that dropped. Something about his reaction tells me he knew about them already. His shock is directed at _me_.

"Oh for _fuck's sake_ , Katniss," he groans.

This sends me reeling, wounds me in some small way. Sympathy, compassion, maybe even empathetic disdain - all of these things I might have expected from Peeta in this situation. But not impatience. Not the mild contempt he's showing me now.

" _Seriously?_ That's why you're pissed at him?" he asks incredulously, bringing his hands away from his face to gesture sharply at the air. "Don't you think you're being a little unreasonable? So you're just going to relinquish all contempt for Coin for that transgression? You can't seriously give him credit for the death of your sister when it belongs _entirely_ to her. Oh, you've got to be..." He rubs a hand over his face, shakes his head again.

"You knew?" I whisper. "You knew the bombs weren't Snow's and you didn't tell me?"

He gives a sigh of resignation, then pulls his hand away from his face to glance back at me and take in my wounded expression. He frowns apologetically and reaches out to me but I resist, knowing my face must accurately reflect how betrayed I feel.

"We were separated when I found out. And it was so long ago that I'd assumed it had become common knowledge by the time we were reunited. I guess I just figured you'd already known. I mean it's not like...it's not like it wasn't painfully obvious, when you take the time to piece it all together," he says with a shrug, his voice dropping off sheepishly at the end, as if he feels guilty for pointing it out.

My shoulders sag in response, and I suddenly feel so lethargic and numb that I sink down into a chair and gaze past him out the window, trying to make some sense of my emotions. His face settles into one of gentle but grave sincerity, the way one looks at you when they're about to break the news that someone's just died.

"Now Katniss, listen to me," he says, and his voice is deathly quiet, but holds such chastising sincerity that my breath catches in my throat. "We have lost...too many people _. Way too many people_...to be holding misguided grudges against the few we have left. _Gale did not kill your sister_. For fuck's sake, _Coin did that_. Coin did that! It's an insult to everything we've done, everything we've been through to not put that credit where it's due."

His jaw flexes, he takes a deep breath and clenches his fists at his sides. He brings a hand up to rub it wearily through his hair. Restless gestures of a person in disbelief. I feel a stab of overwhelming self-consciousness and self-doubt, and I seem to shrink in upon myself at the notion that Peeta is actually _shaken_ by my interpretation of what happened in the Capitol that day. And it slowly starts to occur to me...that maybe I was wrong.

Peeta stills, composes himself. He gingerly approaches me and kneels down so that we're level with one another, bracing his hands on the arms of the chair, caging me there. His expression has softened again, and his eyes are pleading with me. "It was hardly a novel war tactic that took out those people that day," he continues. He's speaking slowly, carefully enunciating each word to emphasize his sincerity. "It's been used in wars for centuries. _Centuries_. Gale certainly didn't invent it, and had he not reapplied it, someone else very surely would have." He pauses, brings his hand up to firmly cup my jaw, forcing me to look at him as I've been pointedly avoiding his gaze. "Katniss...you don't blame the maker of the weapon. You blame the person wielding it. Coin exploited Gale in that way, just like she was exploiting you. ...And me. _She_ was wielding the weapon. _Gale is your friend_. You two developed a pretty significant bond over the years that can't be severed with some falsely perceived infraction. After everything you two have shared and experienced, it _breaks my fucking heart_ to think you'd just write him off forever."

He sees the tears that spring to my eyes, the flush that I know is spreading across my face, and he mercifully releases me. That ugly sense of self-doubt is seeping through every part of me, unguent and black like tar, constricting my chest so that I forget how to breathe. Had that been my intention? Was I really going to never speak to Gale ever again? In the heat of my blinding anger, I hadn't thought that far ahead. I hadn't thought about how I'd been condemning Gale for having been used in exactly the same way I had, something to which I should have been sympathetic. A sob cracks through me at the notion of permanence, of the severance of a connection that was once the only stability I had in my life.

Peeta's arms are reliably there to comfort me. The moment he opens them, I push off from the chair and stumble straight into them, and his hand cradles the back of my head as I sob and hiccup into his chest. He doesn't say anything. No trite condolences, no platitudes. Just comforting, respectful silence as I let myself dry out. Soothing caresses at the back of my head, a palm rubbing circles into my back. His lips are warm and damp at my temple, and these are the things that give me strength.

"Listen," Peeta says gently after my whimpers have subsided, "it's not my place to dictate to you how you cultivate your relationships. And it certainly isn't like you owe him anything - or me, for that matter - but you two spent an awful lot of time getting to know each other and protecting each other for it to culminate in ' _just fuck off._ ' And I feel like a lot of the things that helped us survive in the arena were things you learned from _him_. In a sense, he saved our lives. Maybe you should talk to him. And if you're still angry and don't want him in your life, then I'll respect that and I'll never bring it up again. Do we have a deal?"

It's really not an unreasonable request at all. The rebellious part of me is predictably annoyed that as always, Peeta has a point. And apparently, Gale and Peeta are friends now, and it would be selfish of me to infringe on that.

"Okay," I mutter, still not entirely confident enough to emerge from the safety of Peeta's chest.

"Okay?" he challenges, and I feel his muscles shift as he cranes his neck to try and glimpse my face. I just nod.

"All right then. Let's go see him."

* * *

It's something of a shock to see them greet each other so warmly. Referring to one another as _brother_. Laughing together, a firm handshake that ends in a back-slapping embrace. I feel fatuous and shallow, really. _What are you playing at_ , is what I'd said to Peeta. Implying with hostility and accusation that he'd brought me here as some sort of cruel joke. Thinking it was all about me when Gale is clearly as much of a friend to Peeta as he is - was - _is?_ \- to me.

I'm so weak with nerves that I nearly collapse, but Peeta is always so finely attuned to my emotions that he's prepared and has an arm wrapped firmly around me to hold me upright. Gale looks sharp in a dark, pressed uniform with a crest of stripes on the sleeves that resemble the ones on my old uniform from Thirteen. A couple of other uniformed men refer to him as _Chief_ when they pass him on the steps of the Justice Building.

And it's strange - any vengeful contempt I had for him completely melts away upon seeing him again, and I don't feel hatred or anger, only relief. It becomes painfully obvious how misdirected my anger was, how irrational I'd been for blaming him. And whatever romantic potential there may have previously been between us is completely gone now - that ship sailed some time ago - but I understand in an instant that nothing could ever erase our friendship. Even without Peeta's coaxing, I know I would have eventually caved and reached out to Gale again anyway. There's no denying that Gale was and always will be one of the most important people in my life, and I have Peeta to thank for reminding me of that.

There's a chaos of emotions and incoherent words, jittery babbling on my part because I want to avoid having to listen to Gale apologize for something that was never his fault. I'm a wreck of nerves and relieved tears and I'm a little dizzy so I'm not instantly aware of Gale's sincere expression or the urgency in his voice. Behind me, I hear Peeta whisper something under his breath that sounds like _holy fuck_ \- and that's when my eyes shift past Gale's shoulder, just in time to see her descending the steps behind him. Her honey-blonde hair is done in a braid just like mine, and there's a bow and a sheath of arrows of her own slung over her back.

My knees buckle underneath me, but Peeta and Gale simultaneously grip me by either elbow to hold me up as I gape at what can only be a ghost.

"Madge," I wheeze, and she strides up to me and pulls me into a suffocating embrace. " _How?_ "

"We tried to call you," she mutters against my hair. "I think there's something wrong with your phone."

I hide my sheepish expression in her shoulder, and after the initial shock wears off and I'm clear-headed enough to process what she's saying, she explains that she didn't make it out of Twelve with the initial wave of survivors, so no one knew she'd escaped the fires. She'd gotten burned in the process, with some puckered scarring running up her left arm and the side of her neck - but for the most part, she'd gotten out unscathed after her parents sacrificed themselves to ensure her safety. She'd never trusted the promise of Thirteen, too suspicious of a district that would lie in secret under the radar of the rest of the nation, only to appear when our district was vulnerable and offer the promise of utopia. So she hid when the hovercrafts came to evacuate the refugees, watched from a distance as they were shepherded on board and then waited, stock-still in the brush for hours after they left before finally deeming it safe enough to emerge. After finding my old bow and arrows in their designated hollow log in the woods, she wandered aimlessly through the wilds, spending the entirety of the war laying low between the districts.

I'd almost forgotten I'd taken her out to the woods and taught her to shoot, once upon a time, and she gazes at me with reverent gratitude, thanks me profusely for bestowing upon her the knowledge that's kept her alive this whole time. _Oh, Madge_. Quiet and kind and brave.

"She's a crack shot, too," Gale adds.

I catch her shooting him a sardonic glance and an eyeroll as I pull away, and he just flashes her a mischievous smile. Maybe there is something between them after all, but I'm oddly at peace with it. I don't feel that fierce indignation I'd initially felt at the implication of it back when she brought him the morphling in that snowstorm. I don't feel a shred of jealousy or betrayal. It just seems _right_ , and really, I'm just grateful to have my two old friends back. I wonder if this dizzy elation is what Peeta felt when he found out his father was alive. It takes me a minute to figure out why I feel so... _off_ , and it slowly occurs to me that this is the happiest I've been in months - _years_. To the point where I'd completely forgotten what it felt like.

They give us a tour of the district - the real tour, not the guided one we were shown as victors - and we eventually make it outside the district line to the wilderness beyond to hunt. Madge and I gather strawberries. Jet does an incredible job of flushing out game for us, and even eagerly presents us with a pheasant she caught in the brush. I feel a warm swell of pride when I watch Madge shoot, and it's clear she's had a lot more practice since I first took her out to the woods. Gale and Peeta make dreadful jokes at each other that border on the obscene while we pluck and skin our catch for the day. It's strangely peaceful - and _normal_. And it feels right.

It turns out that Gale and Madge are part of a new law enforcement squad aimed to clear out the remainder of totalitarian control within the district. Aside from assisting the refugees in rebuilding their district and teaching the community new hunting and cultivating techniques, their job is to root out old Peacekeepers and corruption that still has a significant foothold in some of the isolated towns in the mountains. _Democracies aren't built in a day_. I think I heard Peeta say that once, and though the thought should make me nervous and impatient, for some reason it gives me purpose. _We're still needed_. The world still needs people like us. I can only imagine how the other districts may be faring. Twelve isn't seeing any vestiges of corruption because there were so few survivors in its destruction, but Eleven? Or Eight? The other districts can still use our assistance, and our vacation turns into more of a scouting mission to assist the survivors and ensure that corruption doesn't regain traction.

Peeta and I eventually make it to Four to visit our parents, though we spend a lot of time at the beach. We become pretty good at finding isolated places where we can be intimate without the risk of getting caught. Peeta gently rubs a cooling salve into the cruel sunburn I've acquired on my back, eliciting a few wanton-sounding moans from me in the process. A small whine dies in my throat when the rubbing stops, and I turn over to raise up on my elbow and gaze down at him impatiently. He's resting on his back, staring upward as if he's lost in deep thought, and he casually slides his palm across his chest, his eyes flitting to mine.

Held snugly between his fingers is a ring, and it's set with my pearl, nestled between two blood-red gemstones. "So about that wedding we never got to have," he says nonchalantly.

"Oh," I breathe, freezing on the spot as my breath hitches in my throat. I've never been one for jewelry. It was always so daunting to put on and take off, uncomfortable and cumbersome to wear. This is different, though. I barely register the word 'wedding' and stare at the ring blankly. "Rubies?" I manage to whisper, testing my voice.

"Red diamonds, actually," Peeta says. "But if you'd rather have rubies - "

"No," I say quickly. "It's...perfect."

He quirks an eyebrow at me, one corner of his mouth twitching up in a half-smile. "Is that a yes, then?"

We agree on an insufferably extravagant wedding.

Effie is absolutely beside herself at the news. Haymitch agrees to sober up long enough to walk me down the aisle.

* * *

A/N: Sorry this took so long, guys. Metal Gear Solid happened and I've been drowning in Phantom Pain feels. I have an addiction and his name is Kazuhira Miller.

Anyway. The whole part about the Mellarks having been Jewish is something I slipped in there because I felt like I should finally give a subtle reason for why Peeta would be circumcised. You know, other than "the author thinks uncircumcised penises are a chore and doesn't want to write descriptive sex scenes involving one." Because when I think about it, I just don't see circumcision being practiced in the Hunger Games universe, except for maybe in the Capitol for aesthetic purposes. And honestly, I can totally see Mr. Mellark being Jewish anyway.


	17. Hasta la Victoria Siempre

_.Gale._

Ghosts. It's become the unofficial title of our collective, given to us by passing legend and rumor, always spoken in hushed voices. We're unsure when or where it started, or how word managed to travel around a world with limited global communication, but our reputation has traveled with us. The word is different everywhere we go, but they all translate the same.

I raise the binoculars to my eyes and do a cursory sweep of the rocky landscape before us, frowning at the hazy earthen blur on the horizon where the mountainous terrain tapers out to desert plains. Beside me, Peeta calmly attaches a suppressor to his rifle, then shoulders it and peers through the scope at the mountains across the ravine.

"Got a dust storm coming in from the west," I say darkly, and Peeta does a slow sweep of his rifle in the direction of the storm, his frown slightly concealed behind the stock of his gun.

"Think they'll be back by then?" he says, and he idly lifts the bandana tied around his neck so that it covers his nose and mouth. I do the same.

I sweep my binoculars back to the mountains, and after a moment of careful searching, I spot the slightest hint of movement - completely unrecognizable to anyone who isn't specifically looking for them - as they make their careful climb over the rocks. Peeta's mastery of camouflage has rendered Madge and Katniss nearly invisible as they infiltrate the territory, efficiently scaling over the rocks on their way to the top where the main communications arrays are stationed.

"They better be," I say after a tense silence. Visibility in a dust storm is shit. You're lucky to see your hand in front of your face, and it's all too easy to get lost, take a wrong turn, and plunge to your death off the edge of a cliff. Perhaps your body will be found when the air clears, provided your corpse hasn't been buried beneath the ever-shifting dunes. Topography out here is as capricious as the very winds.

It's nothing we can't handle. This is our job. There really is no one else who can do what we do.

* * *

Eleven years ago, about six months after Peeta and Katniss were married, the four of us were camping on the beach in Four to the tune of strawberries and expensive champagne when Jet let out a small whine and began barking frantically at the horizon. After an extended moment of trying to calm her and squinting in the harsh orange glare of the sunset, we spotted the strange object looming in the distance, growing closer by the second.

"What the fuck is that thing?" Madge whispered.

It looked nothing like the humble fishing vessels moored in Four's harbor, but it was clearly a boat of some kind, daunting and menacing in its size and power.

"It's a battlecruiser," Peeta said softly. After a profound silence, he tore his eyes away from the vessel and glanced at us, his eyes hard and grim. "A warship. And it's safe to say it isn't one of ours."

"Then whose?" Katniss asked, at which point Peeta and I exchanged a very solemn glance.

Before the war, most inland residents of Panem - even the ones from the Capitol - were fortunate if they ever even got the opportunity to see the ocean, much less contemplate what might lay on the other side of it. Even after the war, too many people were preoccupied with rebuilding, rediscovering their place in a society much freer than they were accustomed, so exploring the vistas outside the district in which they were born wasn't a luxury that even registered on the map of possibilities for the newly-liberated citizens. We'd all been led to believe we were the only ones left in the world - alone on a rock that had forsaken its inhabitants, isolated on the only bit of cultivable land left after the planet had been ravaged by merciless natural disaster and war.

Sobering up to a strange ship on the horizon equipped with capabilities no vessel in Panem could rival is not particularly the gentlest way to discover...we were wrong. A battle-ready vessel didn't exactly seem to extend a hand that spoke of peace and goodwill.

"Something's wrong," Peeta whispered, his voice so low and uncertain that he might have been speaking only to himself. "It should be decelerating to anchor. It's not at full steam, but it's maintaining a steady course. I'd rather find out why from a safe distance."

Scrambling up the craggy terrain in our inebriated state, we ducked behind an outcropping and waited as the ship loomed closer, finally making its jarring collision with land. Plumes of muddy water rolled ashore as the hull scraped bottom and slowed to a painful stop. For a long moment, we didn't move. We just watched and waited, Katniss and Peeta holding Jet tightly as she whined and shifted restlessly, tail flapping excitedly against the gravelly sand. No activity came from the ship, and up close, we could see that it was in considerable disrepair. Rusted and warped in most places, its turrets looked like they hadn't been used in decades, if at all. It quickly became apparent that this warship hadn't seen a war in quite a while, and had been recommissioned for long-distance travel.

Or escape.

"Somebody wanna get Annie down here?" Peeta whispered when the waters finally settled, and before I could protest, Madge was shooting off toward town to drag her out of bed.

We'd been visiting her regularly, but raising a newborn on one's own is a rather daunting task, so she had a tendency to turn in early. But she'd been appointed as the new maritime advisor in the aftermath of the rebellion, and there was no one else to consult in the event of a strange ship crashing onto land. I inspected the flag flying on deck, bearing an unfamiliar color scheme and insignia, and I shot a quizzical sideways glance at Peeta.

"Look familiar?" I asked, knowing that a good portion of his wealth of knowledge came from close friends he made while working in the Capitol.

He frowned and shook his head. "Not at all. That thing could be from anywhere."

Moments later, Madge returned with not only Annie, but Mrs. Everdeen as well, and Katniss lost her cool. Because clearly a derelict ship crashing ashore with nothing but radio silence for the better part of an hour would likely require the assistance of a medic.

She screamed at her mother, begged her not to go on that ship, that it was a trap, there's no telling what's on there, if she set one foot on that ship she'd never forgive her and _don't you remember how Prim died_? Her protests quickly turned incoherent as Peeta gently tugged at her arm and guided her into a restraining embrace, where she fell into uncontrollable sobbing and shaking so violently that Peeta had to hold her up to keep her from collapsing. Even Madge bit her lip and shamefully looked away, eyes glistening with sudden tears brought on by the painful sounds coming out of Katniss, but Mrs. Everdeen just assured her she'd done the right thing, then turned and gingerly slogged her way through the muddy beach toward the ship as I hastily grabbed onto Jet to keep her from darting off with them. With Annie's help, they eventually found a way on board and disappeared inside.

Another twenty minutes of silence. Katniss' sobs had gone from panicked hyperventilating to rapid murmurs under her breath to complete catatonia, and Peeta gently sat her back down on the rocks and held on to her, rocking her back and forth as he muttered reassurances to her. It was to our immense relief that Annie and Mrs. Everdeen reappeared on deck, their mouths and noses covered with pieces ripped from Mrs. Everdeen's apron, and a skinny, sharp-featured young man propped between them.

He seemed barely conscious as he sagged against them, and with considerable effort, they were able to help him ashore. Upon closer inspection, _skinny_ really didn't do him justice. Emaciated was more like it. His coloring was sallow and sickly, cheeks sunken, his clothes were considerably tattered and dirty, and it took all of his strength just to speak - which was in a language none of us understood. An attempted smile at us revealed his bleeding gums, and we kept a respectful distance for fear of contagion. Katniss had about fainted at the reappearance of her mother, too drained from the fluctuating adrenaline of panic and relief, and Peeta was doing his best to merely keep her conscious as we grilled them for answers on what they found inside that ship.

"It's safe to say it's not contagion," Mrs. Everdeen reassured us, tugging the fabric down that covered her nose and mouth. "But the smell..." She paused, giving a dejected sigh. "Roughly half the crew is dead, the rest weakened from starvation. These aren't seafaring people, that's certain. I don't think they were quite prepared for how long they would be at sea. The few rations left on board are spoiled. Those that didn't die of starvation likely died of contamination from spoiled food."

"Where did they come from?" I asked.

"No telling, we can't understand a word any of them say," Annie said, then extricated a book that had been tucked beneath her arm, extending it out toward us. "But he did give us this. The captain's dead, but this was his logbook. Feel free to take a look."

Peeta's hand shot out and he grabbed the book, then started rifling through the pages as he narrowed his eyes with what looked like grim recognition. A brief glimpse at the pages and all I saw were strange glyphs. The 'R's and 'N's were backwards. Peeta only sighed and the corners of his mouth tightened as he closed the book, handing it back to Annie.

"It's Cyrillic," he said darkly.

"Is that a language?" she asked.

"An alphabet. Plenty of languages used it, there's no telling which one of them these refugees speak. Even then, I doubt there's anyone in Panem who can translate."

But luckily, there was. In all her panicked distress, Katniss was able to recall a passing moment with Plutarch from months before, when he'd told her about the origins of the name _Panem_ in passing and the language from which it was taken. It wasn't the language we needed, but if he'd been familiar with one, there was a chance he'd been familiar with others. Only Plutarch was dead, so our only hope was Fulvia. It was one hell of a long shot, but she was all we had, so we flew her out from the Capitol that night while Annie arranged provisions for the refugees and a task force was sent out to dispose of the corpses on the ship.

The four of us, along with Annie, Mrs. Everdeen, and the sickly first mate convened with Fulvia and Four's mayor in their Justice Building. Fulvia recognized the dialect immediately. Her knowledge of it was rudimentary, but if the survivor spoke slowly, she could understand him well enough.

Like us, they'd been exploited by despotic leaders enabled by natural disaster and the remnants of past war. Their numbers were being wiped out by starvation and pandemic. Luckily the pandemic subsided when it killed off everyone that wouldn't have already been immune, but what was left of the population was slowly withering away to not only hunger, but exposure as well. Wherever their home was, it was cold. The winters there were harsher than the winters we endured in Twelve, and with no resources to heat their homes, many froze to death. Their leaders did nothing to help them, so what little survivors able to escape were rounded up in the middle of the night, risking imprisonment and torture for breaking curfew, and absconded with an old decommissioned ship that was presumably too old to still be seaworthy.

"They underestimated how long before they'd find land again. They've been at sea for 22 days," Fulvia explained.

While Fulvia spoke to the young man representing the refugees, Peeta seemed distant, lost in his head. He'd stared listlessly at the table in front of him, eyes shifting slightly as he stared at nothing as though deep in thought, but when Fulvia said this, he perked up, seemed to think for a moment, then shot forward in his seat to grab a pencil and some paper and began scribbling numbers on it.

"Ask him if they kept a steady course for the duration of their journey," he said absently as he continued scribbling.

Speaking slowly and using the help of one of Plutarch's old books, Fulvia did her best to translate and the man nodded, muttering in his strange language with a dejected shrug.

"He says none of them were really sure how to operate the ship, so they maintained a modest cruising speed for fear of fuel limitations," Fulvia replied.

Peeta nodded sternly, pensively tapping the eraser of his pencil against the corner of his mouth. "About how long did it take that thing to crash ashore after we first spotted it?"

I thought for a minute, remembering the positioning of the sun just behind the ship as we tensely watched it approach. It was notable, since it was low enough in the sky to be abrasive on the eyes, but had set by the time the ship scraped ashore. "About fifteen minutes," I answered.

Peeta scribbled more numbers, frowning down at them before setting his pencil firmly on the table. "Assuming they made a straight shot here, their home is roughly five thousand miles from us."

"Five _thousand_?" Fulvia said doubtfully. "That's impossible. There isn't the technology for any seafaring vessel to travel that far without having to stop to refuel."

"Not if it's powered by a nuclear reactor," Peeta answered quietly.

A silence fell over the room as we looked nervously to one another. _Nuclear_ was a powerful word to us, and though we'd heard it had once been a reliable source of energy long before the Dark Days, we'd begun to regard it as urban myth. The only purpose for anything nuclear in our world was war. But our strange guest seemed to recognize that word, straightening in his seat and catching Peeta's eye.

"Nuclear, _da_ ," he said with a sharp nod.

"Who would have that kind of technology, though?" Fulvia asked.

" _We_ used to." Peeta seemed deeply bothered by something, his mouth a straight line as he continued staring at his scribbles on the paper in front of him. "And if they're where I think they're from, we were involved in a war with them a long time ago. Guess it doesn't much matter now. They need our help, and they've got a piece of machinery sitting on our coast that we could reverse engineer and build ourselves."

At this point, Annie strode forward, a large book in her hands that looked like it might fall apart any second if she turned the pages too abruptly. "He's right," she said, laying the book down on the table. "I took a closer look at the vessel. Its structure and capabilities are nothing like the ships we studied in Naval History in school, so I had a look at the classified texts the old mayor used to keep locked up in her personal library, and I found this. It's a Kirov-class battlecruiser, the largest surface combatant warship of its time. It's old. Deployed in the late twentieth century. Under combined propulsion, it has an unlimited range. After the Dark Days, we weren't allowed to build anything of the sort, and any of the technicians that would know how to safely maintain a nuclear plant would have been hiding away in Thirteen anyway."

She paused, rubbed her palm over her forehead and sighed. "My biggest concern," she continued softly, closing her eyes, "...like I said, that ship is old. _Ancient_ , really. That reactor could be unstable. There's no telling if they - or we - were exposed to any radiation while on that ship."

Katniss stiffened and frantically turned toward her mother, impulsively grabbing her shoulder in sudden alarm. I averted my attention to the window, at the refugees lingering about in the Square just outside, the shopkeepers having kept their doors open late to give out food, blankets, and medicine. I studied the refugees' tattered clothes, their faces, their delighted reactions with Jet as she humbly greeted them, tail wagging in excitement as they pet her, sitting obediently as the children hugged her and stroked her fur. She was nearly full-grown by then, a looming amber-eyed beast at first glance, and a few of the adults were initially startled by her, skittering away and grasping at their children, a ripple of exclamations of what sounded like _'Volk!'_ among the crowd. But when she flopped down on her side and exposed her belly to the curious children, most of the crowd relaxed and tentatively came forward to pet her, let her sniff their hands and clothes, some even slipped her a few of their meat rations, which she gently took from their outstretched fingers.

They were all rather small people, with birdlike frames and features. Sharp, angular noses, high cheekbones and moonlit skin, light, clear eyes and wheat-colored hair. They looked so different from anyone in Panem, so familiar yet so exotic at the same time. They were weak, listless, obviously very tired and hungry, but none of them were sporting symptoms of a month's worth of radiation exposure. Sitting through the tedious lectures in Nuclear History back in Thirteen gave me confidence of that, at least.

"I don't think that's going to be an issue," I said. "Twenty-two days confined to that ship, trust me, if the reactor had sustained a meltdown, they'd be showing it. None of them seem to be hemorrhaging from every orifice in their body, so that's at least one less concern."

Katniss seemed to relax slightly, but maintained a claw-like grip on her mother, nonetheless.

"Fulvia, is your hovercraft still prepped for flight?" Peeta asked suddenly. "I need to speak with President Paylor immediately."

It was unclear what had him so withdrawn, or what he was planning. He was eerily solemn for most of the flight to the Capitol, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, fingers steepled pensively in front of him, shielding the lower half of his face while his eyes gave away nothing. The ship's first mate and de facto spokesperson - Ilya, we soon learned - came with us, exhausted and seemingly shell shocked but determined to act as an emissary to our highest seat of power.

Looking closer at him, he was really just a kid, perhaps just younger than me, eyes wide but determined, wearing an expression that suggested he couldn't afford fear or anxiety at the moment, only survival. He kept twitching, jumping spasmodically after extended moments of stillness, and I recognized the natural reflex of a person who hasn't slept in days, that involuntary jolt that occurs when the body is trying to kickstart itself back into action. Madge tried to convince him to sleep a little, but he wouldn't have any of it, so we resorted to taking turns teaching him useful words and phrases in English so he might greet our president personally.

Johanna and Enobaria had been appointed to President Paylor's team of elite bodyguards after the election - it was predicted that some of Snow's old supporters might pose a threat - and they greeted us on arrival, both of them keeping suspicious eyes on our guest. Neither of them said a word, merely resumed their places on either side of the door to Paylor's office, looking poised and sharp in their sleek black suits as Paylor received us.

She was generous and charitable as always, offering education, housing, and job placement for the refugees, listening with a compassionate ear as Ilya tried his best to explain what they endured at sea and how his people needed a new home. But when the conversation turned to going back to retrieve the ones they left behind, the request all but sucked the air out of the room. No living person in Panem had ever ventured outside its borders, much less dared to traverse whatever vast oceans laid beyond them. It was a plea for help we weren't sure we could fulfill, but Paylor insisted we try.

"You can't deny that we have a moral obligation to help these people," she said. "If there are other nations out there that are experiencing the same problems we did, that things are so bad that they'd take a risk like that, not even knowing they'd find land again at all...we can't risk that oppression being allowed to persist and possibly spread again. We can only assume, of all the surviving nations that remain, that we're the first to liberate ourselves. Otherwise, someone would have come to help us when we were in need. We can't turn our backs on this."

Peeta cupped his hands over his nose and mouth, wearily rubbing his face as he weighed the options. "That's one hell of a risk," he breathed. "From how long they were at sea..." He disdainfully shook his head and pursed his lips. "It suggests there's a whole lot more water between us and them than there was the last time cartographers charted the territory. A whole lot of land was swallowed up by the disasters, a lot of people displaced. It's not an ideal situation, that's certain."

"Our hovercraft can make the distance," Enobaria offered.

"How do you know?" Peeta asked skeptically.

"I'm from District Two. We housed most of the Capitol's fleet of hovercraft. My father was a hangar foreman, he maintained them for years. They don't have nearly the cruising speeds of the old high-flying planes from centuries ago, but they can make the distance and back without refueling, probably."

It wasn't exactly reassuring, but Peeta seemed up for the challenge.

"That's not even my biggest concern," he muttered. "Now that we know there are others out there, and they've made contact...this opens a lot of doors. I was hoping we'd have a little more time before something like this happened. Historically, getting involved in any country's domestic affairs always leads to war. We can't afford another one of those so soon, not while we're in the middle of reconstructing. I'm not even sure officially making contact would be wise."

"We can't just abandon them, either," Paylor countered.

Peeta nodded curtly, a grim agreement. He stilled then, seemed to think about what he was about to say, then shifted his eyes between me, Madge, and Katniss before settling his eyes on Paylor. "I could take care of it. ...Discreetly."

At this, Johanna gave an amused yelp. "Never would have taken you for a mercenary," she quipped. "Didn't think you had it in you, kid."

Peeta frowned and shot her a disdainful glare. " _It's not a fucking mercenary_ ," he snapped. "I just refuse to endanger the country for this. I'd prefer to act independently. I'll not speak for any nation or have my actions done under its seal. It'll be off the books."

An awkward silence followed, and I grimaced slightly as I gave him what I hoped was an apologetic look. "That's...kind of a mercenary, Peeta."

" _Whatever_ \- but it's something I'm trained to do. I think I can pull it off. They'll never even know I'm there."

"And what, exactly, would you being doing while you're there?" Paylor asked. "You can't exactly evacuate an entire populace _discreetly_."

Another extended silence. They exchanged a long, solemn glance, a grim understanding between them of what Peeta was implying. It was a poorly kept secret how Peeta preferred to discreetly _take care_ of things during his employment in the Capitol.

"The hoverplanes do have stealth capabilities," Enobaria suggested quietly.

"Do I have your approval?" Peeta asked, his voice a low, conspiratorial murmur.

Paylor frowned, clearly uncomfortable, but what other option was there? She knew as well as we did that revealing ourselves as a free, autonomous nation to another group of oppressors would be disastrous. It was a situation in which ethics and necessity were at odds, a conflict of interest that didn't sit too well with someone of Paylor's honest convictions.

"You don't need approval for something I don't know about," she said with a resigned sigh. "Keep it off the books."

Whether Peeta planned on acting alone or not was unclear, but there was no way we were letting him go without us. Of the four of us, not a single one of us could sit still, having been practically forced to do so our whole lives. All of us had spent our adolescence fantasizing about instigating an uprising, freeing ourselves from the tyrannical chains that bound us, and while the war was harrowing and traumatic for all of us, we weren't exactly the types to turn our noses up at the opportunity to do it all over again. It was the most alive any of us had ever felt. There was no question, no discussion about whether or not Peeta might have wanted us to go with him. We went anyway.

We meticulously gathered information from the refugees, the trajectory of their course, weather conditions for the duration of their journey, the exact amount of time they spent at sea, their average cruising speed. We had them draw maps and diagrams, the positions of the stars each night, and give us every detail on the leaders who would have facilitated the death of an entire population. We were given details on the topography, where we could locate their oppressors, a few of the survivors even supplied us with recent photographs.

Mr. Mellark, Mrs. Everdeen, and my mother all tried to convince us not to go. They tearfully pleaded with us - it was a hell of a risk we were taking, how could we even know that we were headed in the right direction? We were blindly setting out with no promise of return. But Peeta, with his sobering ability to seduce a crowd with pretty words, only fixed them with his confident, assertive stare and assured our parents that he knew what he was doing, and that we would return. He made it sound as casual as if we were merely making a run to the market. Truth be told, I'd legitimately had doubts on whether or not we'd actually come back, but Peeta even had me convinced that this was nothing more than a simple errand.

We had a work detail scrub the Panem seal from the hovercraft, then it spent a week in a hangar with engineers from Two and Thirteen who made modifications to ensure its fuel efficiency and optimize its stealth capabilities. In almost no time at all, an aircraft that would have been running on fumes just one way was capable of clearing the most daunting of distances and withstanding the harshest of weather. With no more authoritarian control over research and development, the nation's engineers were harboring a wealth of untapped potential that made it clear how possible it might have been to make contact outside of Panem had they not been shackled by arbitrary regulations. To think that for decades, the only reason we didn't have the means to venture too far from the country's borders was because our leaders were intentionally stifling our transportation potential made our mission all the more inspiring. Within a fortnight of the refugees' appearance on our coast, we were ready to disembark.

I still remember Peeta's instructions, sitting with an almost disturbing calmness as we glided over an endless expanse of ocean that made me feel uncomfortably small -

"We are in no way to engage the enemy. We have pictures of the targets, and a map of how to get to them. Take them out silently, and from a distance if possible. If you get captured..." He fell silent for a moment as he cleaned his rifle, jaw flexing rhythmically as he pensively chewed the inside of his cheek. " _Just don't get captured_."

At steady hovercraft speeds, it took a mere twenty hours to span the rough waters that took the refugees nearly a month to traverse. We'd been concerned with getting lost or veering off course, but aerial views made it easy to compare topographical similarities of the coast to the maps drawn for us, unmistakable from the detailed renderings of sketches they drew of their coastline. Rusted and tipped precariously on their hulls in the frozen, abandoned harbor were the skeletal remains of the nation's fleet of ships, a motley of everything from fishing vessels to decrepit warships to hulking behemoths that made the refugees' battlecruiser look like a sailboat - _ledokol_ , they called them - massive vessels that centuries ago, would break through icy waters to facilitate the trade routes for cargo vessels in a time when global commerce still existed. They, too, housed nuclear reactors, but the refugees admitted to not knowing the condition they were in, so we opted to stay clear of the water and keep a healthy distance between us and the harbor.

Everything was hazy grey and white, the wispy shadows of perpetual blustery storm. In a land that knew nothing but winter - vegetation, warmth, _life_ was a distant fantasy. An icy desert. No wonder the people were starving. No wonder they all had the hollow look of surrender in their eyes. Looking at the deteriorating corpses of ships, husks of grimy steel and ice, one couldn't help but feel haunted.

Some distance inland, we finally came upon the unmistakable sprawling fortress rendered in various sketches given to us. Nondescript and menacing, all right angles and drab colors, no real architecture to speak of - if Effie were present, she'd have a fit at how much of an eyesore the place looked - it was clear that it was merely there to serve a purpose, to lock away the nation's powerful behind thick concrete and steel, presumably impenetrable to anyone who dared to break inside.

With our experience in war and espionage, we quickly spotted our advantage - defunct electrical pylons, imposing obelisks of steel conveniently towering over the massive structure - were the perfect vantage points for reconnaissance. The snow fell thick there, and covering our tracks proved difficult. We had to get creative with resources - comms relaying back to anyone in Panem were out of the question, but we soon were able to scavenge tech from patrolling sentries we encountered along the way. We silently listened in on their radio chatter, though we predictably couldn't make heads or tails of what they said.

Perfectly camouflaged in white stealth suits specifically designed to protect us from the cold, we were virtually invisible in the snow as we cased the perimeter. We'd debated bringing Jet along, but quickly ruled it out - in this place, her coat would stick out like a sore thumb, so with a plaintive whimper, she was left in the protection of the hovercraft to keep our pilot company. And after a satisfactory assessment of the area, we split up and each headed for individual pylons, all of them spaced far enough apart that we had to look through the scopes of our rifles just to see each other.

I can't say it wasn't a little terrifying. Katniss had always been the climber, and even she looked nervous atop the creaking metal structure, swaying slightly in the high winds. We were all harnessed safely to the lattices as protection from falling from the kick of our rifles, but I don't think a single one of us was too keen on looking down. It was tedious work at first - accompanied by nothing but the howling wind, occasional unintelligible chatter coming through our headsets, the chill so intense that every breath of brisk air resulted in sore lungs. A couple hours of this, staring at nothing but an empty, open courtyard, vertigo and snow-blindness slowly started to set in. If I hadn't been strapped onto the top of the truss, I might have fallen. But then, in the bleary static of exhaustion beginning to dance at the corners of my vision, I saw a smattering of red in the snow down below, followed by a shuffle of movement as a figure crumpled to the ground from a clean headshot.

We'd all equipped our rifles with suppressors so as not to immediately alert suspicion, so I judged the trajectory of the blood blossoming in the snow and peered across the expanse through my scope, Katniss' shoulders squared confidently as her rifle remained aimed in the direction of the shot she'd just taken.

From there, it was easy. Soon enough, others came looking for the official that failed to show up where expected, and one by one, our targets were lured out and into our sights. We'd had their faces committed to memory from the photographs we were given, and the ever reliable trap of human sympathy, the urgency of curiosity, and the sloppy error of panic and confusion ensured that each one of our targets wandered right where we wanted them as they rushed out to inspect the growing carnage. No legwork required on our part. Our suppressors and our camouflage - even our faces covered in white balaclavas that revealed only our eyes - ensured we were undetectable, high above the ground.

Not even half a day and we'd seamlessly succeeded our mission.

With the hovercraft's stealth abilities enabled, we flew over the surrounding villages in the dead of night and airdropped supplies, schematics, resources and instructions - painstakingly translated by Fulvia and Ilya - on how to rebuild and make their environment habitable again. We could never be seen. They could never know of our or Panem's existence.

We returned to Panem safely, much to the relief of our families. Our mission had been a secret to all but a select few, but word seemed to have gotten to some of the refugees because they greeted us with gifts upon our return, thanked us in our language, showed us photographs of the friends and family they left behind and asked if we happened to see them. It was a risk with them knowing of what we'd done, but with the language barrier and what I'm sure was a tacit understanding on their part that discretion was necessary, it was a risk we had to take.

Our hovercraft went back into the hangar to be outfitted with accommodations for potentially longer journeys - it was understood that there might be more missions to come. The first of which was a follow-up flyby to ensure our newly liberated nation was getting back on its feet. We dropped more supplies in the dead of night, waited around overhead until daybreak to catch a glimpse of the people, who were clearly thriving from their recent liberation. We took aerial photographs of them, anything we might give to the refugees back at home as reassurance that their loved ones were going to be okay. It was the best we could do, considering it was likely they'd never see each other again.

I daresay it felt...good. It was the most _normal_ I think any of us had ever felt. With as much trauma as we'd all experienced, this was an exceptionally cathartic way of confronting our demons.

Especially Madge. Brave, resilient Madge.

Ours had always been a tenuous relationship. I'd let such petty things color my judgment of her, back when my biggest problem was merely not starving to death. I'd hated her for having the simple luxuries I didn't, for not knowing struggle - which was incredibly shallow of me, that I would blame her for that. And then circumstances brought us together. Circumstances that make me feel the utmost guilt and shame for ever having addressed her with such vitriol.

The way she'd ended up in District Two was...disturbing, to say the least.

I'd just taken the security job in Two and moved my family into a townhouse in the city, but even with them close, I still couldn't shake the growing sense of isolation. I was aware that a lot of it had to do with Katniss. I thought about the time we spent together, the things I'd said to her, things that seemed harmless to me at the time, but in retrospect I realized I was being pushy and extorting her for...what, a chance at romance? When really, I hadn't even taken the time to sort out whether I even felt about her that way, or if it was just the result of some petty monopoly I felt I had on her when she started getting old enough for other guys to notice her. Stupid. I was young and stupid. And while I certainly still had a lot of emotions to sort out regarding her, one thing was certain - I'd never wanted to lose her friendship. I would always ever value her friendship. She'd been the only constant in my life for so long, the only source of stability, and then she was just...gone. It was a shock for which I hadn't been prepared. I wanted so badly to reach out to her, but knew it would be unwise, especially with as embarrassed as I felt over how entitled I'd acted toward her.

So I spent a lot of time alone. I knew my wisest option was to isolate myself, rediscover my autonomous nature as opposed to one half of a hunting duo. I needed to learn how to just be with myself again. I'd venture outside the district lines into the mountainous terrain beyond and just hunt. Sometimes I felt the whisper of her presence - an imprint of her memory, my brain filling in the missing pieces of custom, like her light footstep beside me, the creaking tension of her bow as she drew her arrow - and soon enough I began to ignore these phantom sensations, to pass off every ambient sound as a figment of my imagination.

Which is why I practically plowed over Madge when I found her, beaten and disheveled in the wilds outside Two.

In all honesty, she scared the living daylights out of me, startled me so badly that I'd drawn an arrow and fired out of reflex before my mind could even process what was happening. Her reflexes were quicker though, and she ducked before the arrow could hit her, which lodged itself into the tree behind her, then she whipped back up at lightning speed and charged at me, plowing into my legs and knocking me to the ground.

I didn't recognize her at first, she was so caked in blood and dirt, her hair matted in several places and a rabid, absent look in her eyes as she pinned me down with the unnatural strength of someone gone feral. I wasn't even immediately sure she was human, my subconscious assuming that maybe some of the Capitol's muttations had been released out into the wild and that I'd happened across one. Fighting with actual effort got me a swift knee to the ribs that had my eyes watering and my lungs spasming. But then I got a good look at her, recognized something human in those familiar eyes and immediately stopped struggling as realization dawned. Not a mutt. Someone I knew.

" _...Madge_?" I said tentatively.

It was impossible, of course - the quiet mayor's daughter from home was dead, and I was looking at a ghost, my mind playing tricks on me yet again and for some reason taunting me with the phantoms of petty rivalries - but she recognized this name, cocked her head to the side with her brows puckered together as though she were remembering that yes, she was once called this, and she immediately relinquished her grip on me, sitting back on her heels in an odd crouch that only added to her feral appearance. Her clothes were ripped to shreds, to the point where she might as well have not been wearing any at all, and I politely cast my eyes downward as I sat up, reaching a feeble hand out in a futile attempt at arranging the ripped fabric so that it might cover her exposed breast.

There was a flash of her old honest compassion in her eyes, if only for a fleeting instant, and she opened her mouth to speak, coughed a couple of times, then rasped, "Gale Hawthorne?"

I nodded, gingerly helping her to her feet and searching her face for the answers to a million questions I couldn't even begin to know how to ask, and then that feral absence returned and she urgently gripped me about the shoulders, panic lighting her face as she panted heavily, steering me back the way I came. "Go," she croaked, her voice hoarse from extended misuse. " _Go_ ," she urged, shaking her head and pointing toward the forest behind her, a dense overgrowth of vegetation the likes of which even I didn't want to explore. " _They_ ," she whispered, and gave me a startlingly strong shove in the direction of the district line, away from whatever unseen dangers she seemed to be warning me about.

"Okay," I conceded, holding my hands up in surrender. "I wasn't planning on going in there anyway. But I'm not leaving you out here. Come on, we can get you cleaned up and get some food in you."

She was hesitant, taking a quick step back as she cast a furtive glance over her shoulder when I reached out to her. "Where?" she rasped.

It took me a moment to understand what she was asking, and then it occurred to me, considering the state she was in, that she very likely had been _out there_ , alone and wandering aimlessly between the districts for quite some time. ...Since Twelve was burned to the ground, at least. I gasped at this revelation, brought a shaking hand to my mouth and rubbed my face wearily, disbelieving that anyone - even someone as attuned to the woods as me - could have survived those conditions and for that long. It was apparent that she likely had no idea where she was, or her proximity to District Two.

I pointed behind me to the rolling terrain that bordered the district line. "Just beyond these foothills is District Two's border. I live there now. I can take you where it's safe."

She pressed her lips together, brows puckering again as she gave another doubtful shake of her head. "Bombs?" she whispered.

"No," I said, moving slowly toward her, the way one might approach a frightened animal. "The war's over. We won. Snow is dead. So is Thirteen's leader. They're gone now. We're safe."

"Safe?" Her lips drew back over her teeth a little as she said it, testing the word out as though she'd never heard it before.

"Yes, safe," I assured her, and I offered my hand out, palm up, in silent invitation. She eyed it as though it were a trap ready to spring on her any moment. I had the distinct impression that if I were to make any sudden movements, she'd bound off like a wild deer through the dense foliage, never to be seen again.

"Are you hungry?" I tested after an extended moment of her lingering there in uncertainty. "When was the last time you ate?"

She sobered at this, her defensive posture relaxing as she took a hesitant step toward me, but made no move to take my hand. She just absently brushed past me, and I turned and silently led her back to the district, where my house stood on the very edge of the perimeter so no one would likely see us and ask questions.

I deposited her at my kitchen table and carefully cleaned the dirt and blood from her hands and fingernails, through which she sat listless and unresponsive, dead eyes staring off into space as though I wasn't even there. When I set a small portion of bread and cheese down in front of her, she awakened from her trance and immediately tore into the food as though she hadn't seen any in days.

"Hey, hey - " I said softly, delicately wrapping my fingers around her wrist. "Take it easy, you're going to make yourself sick. I know you're hungry, but you're going to tear up your stomach. Small bites. Chew thoroughly."

She stared blankly at me for a long moment, but there was a small flicker of understanding on her face, and she relaxed a little, then resumed tearing her food apart slowly as she fell back into her trance. I waited silently for her to finish, lingering awkwardly with the uncertainty of what to do, and when she'd finished, I vaguely gestured to the first door in the hallway off the kitchen.

"Uh, the bathroom's right here, if you wanted to get cleaned up. Towels are in the - oh."

Still staring with that vacant expression, she rose to her feet and peeled her clothes off as she moved toward the bathroom, clearly unperturbed by nakedness. It was very quickly apparent that she hadn't been around civilization in a long time, and would likely need to be resocialized. Whatever trauma she must have experienced out there was a hurdle I wasn't sure I would know how to tackle. I hovered just outside the door, pointedly looking down at the floor as I reached a hand out to open the linen closet, but she didn't indicate that she even noticed my presence. She merely stood there, staring at the bathtub faucet as though she didn't know how it worked, and a dreadful understanding washed over me as it occurred to me that she probably needed to become reacquainted with modern indoor plumbing.

"Ah...okay. Just..." I nervously squeezed past her, doing my best not to brush against her as I showed her how the knobs worked, then got the water to a comfortable temperature and gingerly reached for her hand to guide it under the spray of the shower head. "Is this...okay?"

Her response was to step into the shower without bothering to close the curtain, and she just stood under the spray, eyes wide and vacant as she stared down at the rust-colored water flowing down the drain, posture demure as she seemed to shrink inward upon herself.

It was one of those situations where I really wished Katniss could have been there, or really, Mrs. Everdeen. This was more her area of expertise, and my nerves were firing hyperaware, mind racing in my impotence and complete helplessness in the situation. I was becoming increasingly uncomfortable and had no idea what the appropriate action would be, but there was no telling how long she would stand there, catatonic, if left to her own devices.

I kept my movements slow and deliberate as I plucked the brambles and twigs that had become entangled in her hair, then carefully went to work shampooing the caked dirt away. It took a few washes to get it all out, and then I finally swallowed my squeamishness and took a moment to assess the condition of the rest of her body. Propriety suddenly seemed a trivial concern when it became clear that a mere touch might cause damage and significant pain. Large swathes of dark purple bruising painted her stomach and back, some of the bruising on her thighs looked like finger imprints. And then there were the lacerations. Some were just beginning to heal, others were so deep that I found myself hissing through my teeth at the mere sight of them, hoping they wouldn't become infected. There was puckered scarring along the side of her neck, extending down her arm almost to her elbow, healed burns from what I was certain came from the fire bombs that dropped on Twelve.

I was terrified of touching her, that I might make things worse. I didn't want to go anywhere near her cuts, but they needed to be cleaned. As delicately as possible, I lathered soap into the least abrasive cloth I had and began washing the grime away. She never so much as flinched, didn't cringe away from the press of my palm against her bruising, didn't indicate that she was in any pain or even register her awareness of my presence other than small, idle shifting to facilitate the process. When my hand got close to the more _complicated_ areas, she didn't jerk away or try to hide herself, didn't even blush, only planted her feet a little farther apart to make it easier for me.

Face burning, heart thumping nervously in my chest, I avoided eye contact as I reached the cloth down between her legs. She still didn't react, only continued staring vacantly into space as I puzzled at this disturbing pliability from her, this ultimate surrender coming from the girl who bravely threw my own petulance right back into my face when I'd subjected her to my misguided nastiness on Reaping Day so long ago. I could no longer be nervous about her nakedness, or the awkward situation, but I was terrified for her mental state. Of all the people that could have been her first contact with civilization after so long in isolation, I was possibly the least suitable. She needed someone she knew, someone comfortable and safe. I certainly didn't feel like either of those things.

Swallowing thickly, I turned her about under the jet of water to help her rinse off, then held a towel out for her to step into, which I wrapped snugly around her before tackling the daunting task of combing all the tangles out of her hair. Each tug on her matted hair had me profusely apologizing, asking if I was hurting her, but still she never flinched, never responded to what I hoped were soothing words, so after a long while, I just stopped talking. I really wanted her to speak, to respond in some way, because her reticence was becoming more and more disturbing by the second. After I'd finished combing out her hair and showed her to one of the spare bedrooms, she merely sat down on the bed, still in her towel, staring bleary-eyed around the room as though seeing simple indoor furnishings for the very first time. Her fingers grasped feebly at the lush duvet, kneading at it the way a cat would, seemingly fascinated by this small luxury.

"Ah...I'm sorry, I don't, uh, really have any clothes that might fit you..." I'd said awkwardly, floundering in the doorway with the overwhelming notion that I should do something more but not knowing what. "But...uh, well. You can take whatever you want from any of my closets until I can get something more suitable for you. I'll have some things procured once the shops open tomorrow."

She looked to me finally, as though suddenly remembering I was there. I felt myself instantly shrinking away from that stare, my discomfort growing unbearable at that fog in her eyes, but then something in me snapped and I found myself crossing the room without really thinking about it, crouching down so that I was eye level with her. I was still so afraid to touch her, so preoccupied with the notion that I was making her feel threatened, or that the lightest brush against her would hurt her, so I fidgeted awkwardly for a moment as I deliberated on what to do with my hands before stiffly bracing my palms on the bed on either side of her.

"Madge," I whispered, "what happened to you out there? Will you please just tell me what you found out there? Who are _they_? Please just say something." I hated the way my voice broke, desperate and pleading, but this was not her. She wasn't _her_. I never got to know her all that well, but I at least knew her well enough to understand that this was not characteristic of her at all. I needed to know what laid beyond the lines of the districts that might have fucked her up so drastically, and if it might still pose a threat to Two's security.

Her face suddenly contorted into something hopeless, brows puckering as she pressed her lips together, and this painful, hoarse choking sound came out of her, a wracking cough of a sob with what little voice she had left, and she pitched forward into my chest, deflated, hyperventilating, she was too exhausted to even properly cry.

"Ah - ah, fuck, _Madge_ ," I said softly, rising up to sit next to her as I held her for a long moment, letting her dry out against my chest. "It's okay, you don't have to tell me."

She fell asleep instantly, so I turned the covers down and eased her into bed. I wasn't even sure if leaving her alone would have been a good idea, but I felt too inadequate and confused to do anything else. I considered calling my mother, but found myself dialing Katniss' number instead. Of course it just rang and rang until I slammed the phone back into its cradle. It didn't occur to me to get some form of contact information for Peeta until I was already en route to Two, and by then it was too late. I had to accept that Madge was in my charge indefinitely, and I'd have to figure things out as I went.

It was a straight week of listlessness, isolated catatonia that only relented long enough for her to give a muted _thank you_ when I presented her with food, a nod or a shake of her head when I inquired about her injuries. Each morning, I found her curled up on the floor next to the bed, the covers undisturbed. She didn't know what to do with an actual bed anymore, usually wandered out of it in her sleep, muttering something about the give of the soft mattress giving her vertigo, the covers made her feel like she was suffocating. I knew it could do no good for her injuries, but survival habits are strong and difficult to break.

And then the nightmares started coming. I was expecting it. I wasn't sleeping a whole lot myself, and I would stay awake early into the morning, just waiting for it, listening. The most disturbing part of all was how she never really _screamed_ , but rather made this strangled, keening whimper behind clenched teeth, and how difficult it was to wake her out of it. She suffered severe sleep paralysis, where her limbs would go rigid and her muscles would tense, pulse beating visibly in her throat with panic as she tried to escape the confines of her nightmares. There would be an agonizing extended moment after her eyes snapped open where she was consciously aware that she'd been dreaming, but the ropes of dream terror still bound her limbs, rendering her unable to move. And each time, I would carefully maneuver each limb back to life, remind her where her arms and legs were and how to move them, massaging the circulation back as she caught her breath.

We didn't speak all that much to one another at first. I gave her ample space, only knocked on her door to remind her to eat. I knew she needed to be resocialized, reacquainted with human contact, and that she'd always preferred silence and solitude. I knew better than to pry. I figured she'd come back at her own pace. And she did. Little by little, she went from speaking one-word affirmations to full phrases here and there, simple things like how she liked the way I prepared the potatoes that day, to how the weather looked like rain.

And then one morning, as I willed her out of the grasp of whatever demons haunted her sleep, she clutched at my arm in a claw-like grip before I could leave, her eyes as lucid and focused as I'd seen them yet.

"Don't go looking for them. Don't go out there. Promise me," she said sternly.

I'd wanted to ask her a dozen questions, but the warning in her expression, the sincerity of her glare, all I could do was placate her. "Of course not. I won't," I'd said a little too quickly.

Naturally, the first thing I did was go wandering outside the district line, when I was sure she was too out of it to notice my extended absence.

Against my better judgment, I encroached the thicker wooded area in the foothills of the larger surrounding mountains, further out than I'd ever bothered to explore in my initial hunting trips. I never needed to go that far before. Game wasn't used to being hunted in Two, so venturing too far from the district perimeter was never necessary. The moment I'd stepped into the heavier treeline, I felt like a dark, thick curtain had shuttered over me.

It was quiet. Not in the general way that woods tend to be. There's always _something_. The buzz of insects, the inquisitive chirp of birds, the rustle of the trees as squirrels flit among the branches. These woods were eerily still, and game was conspicuously absent. I don't know how far I wandered, but I went deeper into those woods than I'd intended. Hours, just walking on and on, farther and farther away from civilization, miles from safety. Curiosity drove me, and it wasn't until I felt the chill of sunset nipping through my bones that I noticed I was much farther from the district line than I wanted to be.

I never even saw the trap. It's a little embarrassing, considering how adept I've always been with them. I don't know if it was just that strategically hidden or if I was too distracted, but the moment I realized I should turn around and start heading back, I felt my stomach sliding somewhere into my throat as I fell through the earth, falling a considerable distance before hitting stone below. I landed with a significant enough impact that after I was able to catch my breath, I did a quick assessment to ensure nothing was broken.

It was dark. Much too dark to see anything. The first thing I noticed was the smell. Thick and pervasive, it was the unmistakable putrid stench of human waste. Mixed with the acrid tang of vomit, the rusty scent of blood, the sourness of decay. The heel of my hand had landed in something slick and wet, springy under my touch, and I'd of course cleaned and gutted enough game to know exactly what it was. I had to wonder how many trapping pits there must have been in the area, to have cleared the woods of game so effectively.

Then I heard the moan, soft and desperate, slightly shrill from hoarseness and panic, but unmistakably human. I stilled, held my breath as I blindly looked around me, straining to see in the inky black that surrounded me. I was hearing things, hallucinating again as I always did when in the woods, who the hell else would even be all the way out here, honestly? Then I heard the moan again - but not the same one, this one came from an entirely different source, had a lower tone and was farther away. And just above the rushing in my ears, I could hear the unmistakable sound of labored breaths. All around me, different rhythms of several different pairs of lungs struggling for oxygen in the damp, confined space.

Heart pounding deafeningly in my ears, I shifted my hand from the viscous entrails it had landed in and gingerly reached out, fingers outstretched and probing the darkness, until they hit something hard and jagged, protruding from a mass of something wet and tacky, like a slab of fresh meat. The moment my fingers found purchase, the object abruptly jerked away, accompanied by a sharp yelp and panicked breathing.

My heart dropped into my stomach. As my eyes began to finally adjust to the darkness, I could just make out the outline of the man's severed leg, the bone protruding just slightly from the mangled stump, the flesh torn away in odd increments. No, not torn - _carved_.

Gradually, the bright white of the rising moon sliced through the darkness, casting just enough ambient glow to illuminate the pit. Mutilated and filthy, piled on top of each other, all of them with pieces missing, were about a dozen people, men and women of varying age. They looked like they'd been there a while, eyes glazed over as though drugged, all of them with slender tubes running into their noses. _Feeding tubes_.

I think I may have vomited. I can't remember. It was a surreal sort of nightmare, the world cast sideways and pitched into slow motion, my mind didn't want to make the connection that these _people_ were the game. Live, sustainable game, not even given the dignity of eating. Pieces of them being hacked off in increments, but they were kept alive until...until _what_? Until they no longer had any body parts to offer? Until they slowly suffered to death on their own? I could make out the charred flesh of the blunted edges of their limbs where the severed parts had been cauterized. Of course, the meat had to be kept fresh. Precautions had to be taken to ensure necrosis didn't spoil the food.

If I'd been standing, I would have collapsed. My head felt heavy, the darkness was starting to creep into the edges of my vision, my pounding heart was deafening in my ears and I had to struggle to regulate my breathing to keep from passing out. I couldn't even gather up the fortitude to look for a way out, and not two minutes passed before I felt the needle in my neck. I had just enough time to glimpse the person holding the syringe just before my world went black. What was disturbing was how _normal_ he looked. Where one might expect some monstrous, filthy, hunched over thing with sharpened teeth and matted hair that barely resembled a human being, this was just a man. Clean, neat clothes, tidy hair. Someone who could have been my neighbor.

I woke up disoriented, head feeling as though it were splitting in two, a vague sensation of being underwater. My weapons had been confiscated. I was aware that I was heavily sedated. I could feel the sting in my sinuses and an invasive sensation in the back of my throat where a tube had been inserted into my own nose, fed all the way down my esophagus and ending in a cold sensation in the pit of my stomach from whatever they were feeding us, but I was too drugged to do anything about it. Too drugged to need to be restrained. My hands and feet were still free, but all I could do was lay there, eyes shifting lazily from body to body. At least I still _had_ my hands and feet, but likely for not much longer. I'm unsure how long I laid there, trying to will myself to move, wishing I could so much as twitch my fingers, frustrated that I was too drugged to even be allowed to properly panic at my situation.

Too drugged to properly panic when the screams started coming from the other side of the door that appeared to be the only exit out of the pit. No one responded when the door crashed open, amplifying the screams coming from within. All we could do was stare at the shadowy figure that loomed in the doorway, watch as it approached, leaning over to closely inspect the bodies. Defeated, I closed my eyes when the figure stopped by my feet, crouched down, chose me. I felt a hand around the back of my neck, firmly lifting me up -

" _You fucking idiot_."

Harsh, acidic words. Genuine irritation. I was so drugged, all I could do was muse at the fact that I was being addressed as though I were actually human, and not someone's next meal.

"I told you not to go looking out here, you _moron_."

Madge. I was sure I was hallucinating her, that my memory of her cocksure assertiveness was emerging to mock me. She'd barely spoken a dozen words to me since I'd found her, most of which had been "yes" and "thank you," too absent and lost inside herself to gather up the energy to really interact with anyone. There was no way she could have gotten all the way out there, alone, in her condition. I was hallucinating.

But then her hand on the back of my neck was pulling me upward, forcing me to sit up because I couldn't move on my own, and she was speaking again, asking me a question, but it was lost to the echoes of my drug-induced haze.

"Hawthorne, _focus_ ," she said sharply. Her hand flexed on the back of my neck, either a reassuring squeeze or a spasm, it was hard to tell. "Can you walk?"

I tried to shake my head but only managed to owlishly blink at her.

"That's a no," she sighed. "Okay, lean back a little. Take a deep breath and hold it."

That I _could_ do, and as soon as she saw my chest swell with the best breath I could take, I was coughing and gagging as she drew the tube out of my nose without warning, fluid spilling out of my face as I retched and choked from the unpleasant sensation of it dragging through my throat, feeling immensely humiliated and undignified in the process. But she didn't cringe away, merely steadied me upright with a firm hand on my chest as she waited for me to regurgitate it all up. Then she was shoving a thermos against my mouth, and I petulantly turned away, suddenly wanting nothing more than to never be touched ever again.

"Hey, _stop it_ ," she scolded, voice sharp as her hand clamped firmly around my jaw to turn my face back toward her. "It's water. Drink. All of it. Now."

Maybe it was my drugged state, maybe she just has a persuasive nature about her, but all I could do was follow her short commands. She helped me tilt my head back and I drank, even though my first instinct was to just throw it all up again, but soon it was soothing the desert at the back of my throat, and then my stomach no longer felt like it was imploding in upon itself.

I don't remember much after that. I have a vague memory of her shakily hauling me to my feet, of being distantly impressed at how strong she was, supporting my entire weight on her shoulders. I don't remember leaving the pit, or how we got back to the surface. My next memory was somewhere out in those woods, under the soft moonlight, leaves and pine needles crunching underfoot as the vertigo and the nausea and the panic finally washed over me, my knees buckling as I crumbled to the ground, trembling, intending to curl in upon myself and lay there like that indefinitely. Of wanting the ground to open up and swallow me whole.

"Hey, Gale, not now. You can't do that now. We have to go, _now_."

Her voice, sharp and commanding, somewhere above my ear, one hand wrapped around my wrist and the other at my elbow, trying to haul me up. I just wanted to sleep. I just wanted to be alone in the dark, to lick my wounds where no one could see. I felt small and vulnerable and weak, the drugs were beginning to wear off and I was beginning to fully appreciate what had almost just happened to me, the reality of how my body was not my own, that someone had knocked me out and inserted a fucking tube up my nose and down my throat and almost cut me apart until I had nothing left to give. I held on to the haze of the drugs, relished the floating sensation while it lasted because I knew that panic and anger and embarrassment and the void of general unpleasantness was soon to come.

I heard her sigh, felt the warmth of her breath on my cheek, she was so close. I think I made a small, petulant sound in the back of my throat, a childish whine as she pulled me up into a sitting position.

"Gale."

Her voice was gentler then, much gentler than it had been before, causing me to snap my eyes up to look at her. I could only meet her eyes for a second before glancing away again. I wanted to hide, I didn't want her to look at me.

"Your nose is bleeding," she said softly. I heard the rip of fabric, then felt the press of it beneath my nostril, felt like a child as she dabbed at it gently, her hand holding my chin still.

"I told you, Gale. Didn't I tell you not to go looking out here?" This time, her voice wasn't sharp and accusatory. Soft and gentle, the delicate chiding of a disappointed mother perhaps. My face felt wet. I realized I'd been crying. She just folded the fabric over - ripped from the hem of her own shirt - and dabbed at my face until I calmed. I leaned into it. Relished the comfort too much to be ashamed of my weakness anymore. I just needed her.

I wanted to ask questions, to say something, but my tongue was too heavy. I think I passed out entirely, because my next lucid moment had me waking up on my own couch, back in my house. I don't know how she got me there. If I didn't feel this nasty, brackish emotion creeping up in my chest, I might have laughed at the possibility that she might have _carried_ me all the way back. Small, quiet Madge, hauling a full grown man through the woods and back to safety. I just laid there for a moment, staring up at the ceiling, biting the inside of my bottom lip because I knew it would tremble if I didn't, feeling emasculated and violated and ruined and _stupid_ , tentatively testing my fingers and toes with small movements, head finally clear from the drugs and wishing I'd had more.

"You wanna talk about it?"

I jumped at the sound of her voice, found myself cringing inwardly, wanting to disappear into the couch even though her voice still had that gentle, compassionate tone from before. She was seated in a chair pulled up at my side, patiently gazing down at me.

"It helps if you talk."

I opened my mouth, tested my voice, made a wretched croaking sound and coughed. "Is that - is that what happened to you?" I managed to whisper.

She nodded.

"How long were you in that hole?"

"Couple of weeks. I think. Hard to tell."

She shrugged as if it was nothing. I'd not even been down there for a day and I felt like I'd never recover.

"How did you manage to hang onto all of your limbs for that long?"

"I was too thin when I fell down there, so they had to get me to a suitable weight before I could be...uh, _harvested_."

I winced, and she frowned apologetically.

"There are others out there," she continued, voice subdued. "Small communities, hidden settlements spread between the districts. Some of the communes would offer safe passage to wandering escapees from the districts in return for labor or resources, sometimes information. They came with the subtle understanding that you were beholden to them indefinitely. And some of them...weren't so charitable. Some of them would throw you to the wolves immediately if they feared you were a liability, would ensure the Capitol found you if there was any possibility that you'd sell out their location. Hard to tell who to trust out there, even the ones that offered food and protection came with a high price, so I stayed clear of them. Kept to myself. I encountered other escapees on occasion, but I kept a lot of space between me and them, kept my weapon drawn. I was entirely isolated the entire time I was out there. That hole...that was my first human contact in months."

She fell silent for a long time, and when I turned my head to finally look at her, that void seemed to have returned to her eyes and for an instant, she was that same feral person I tripped over in the foothills outside the district. It wasn't until I reached a feeble hand out to her, brushed my fingertips across her knee, that she snapped out of it.

"I watched them hack off pieces of people for the entirety of the time I was down there," she said quietly. "Wondering when the day would come that it would finally be me. Not once were we spoken to. Just...unceremoniously moved around, manipulated into position like dolls, stuck with needles and loaded with sedatives. Listening to the muted whimpers of the others whenever another portion of their leg was sawed off, too drugged to even be able to scream. I got to smell it every time they cooked. Human flesh doesn't smell very pleasant when it's broiled, I'll tell you that much."

I felt my face contort into something pathetic and ugly as the thought occurred to me that whatever they were giving us in those feeding tubes might have been close to their own diet. I felt like throwing up again, but didn't have anything left in me, so I just swallowed thickly and clenched my teeth.

"Why?" I whispered. "Why would anyone..."

She chewed on her lip, seemed to think for a moment. "Survival, I imagine. It was a whole community of them, that's why there were so many people down in that hole. Can't imagine there's too much game in that area. I certainly hadn't seen any for a while, it's why I'd gotten so thin. People that live in the wilds, escapees from the other districts...no one knows they exist, so they wouldn't be missed. Easy prey."

"We need to help those people," I said after a long silence.

I heard her swift intake of breath, saw her stiffen. "I've already taken care of that," she said haltingly.

Gathering up all of the strength in my weakened limbs, I managed to struggle into a sitting position. "What do you mean?" Something told me I didn't want to know the answer.

She shook her head. "Those people...they were already dead. What life would there have been for them, after? I showed them mercy. It was quick. I promise. For the cannibals..." She gave a tight smile. "Not so quick. Not so merciful."

I stared at her for a long moment, distantly aware of the heavy weight in my chest, my rapid heartbeat, my labored breathing. I could feel it coming, that ultimate moment where I would shatter. And then the dam within me broke, and this hoarse wheeze came out of me that was probably meant to be a sob, and she wordlessly rose up from her seat and sat next to me on the couch, her arms wrapping around me to pull me close. Her fingertips were soft and cool and soothing on the back of my neck, her breath warm on my ear, I could feel her lips brush against me just slightly and it felt so impossibly good that I couldn't think straight. I'd been so starved for physical contact for so long, and then after the time I spent in that hole, I'd never needed anything more in my life. I buried my face in her shoulder and shamelessly cried as her fingers ran through my hair and massaged my scalp, oh _Madge_ , so resilient and brave.

I muttered incoherent thanks to her, apologized for a million things that happened a zillion years ago. Wished I'd taken the chance to get to know her sooner. She just spoke to me in soothing tones, told me I was being silly, it doesn't matter anymore, we're still so young and _so alive_ , it doesn't matter. I'd meant to ask her how she even managed to escape, but realized that didn't matter either. I'm not sure I wanted to know anyway. She just felt so right, just being there. At first I thought it was just my immense relief, my gratitude to her for saving me, but I felt so close to her. So energized by her presence, drawn to her. She'd come back to herself, wasn't listless and distant like she'd been when I first found her, her old personality had crept back and I found it strikingly pleasant. I wished I had known her better, _back then_.

When the nightmares and panic attacks started to come, Madge was there without question. When I felt ashamed and weak, she gave me strength. Coaxed me through it. I did the same for her. We shared this...this _thing_ , this horror, this wretched thing that was our own. Somewhere in there, we started sharing a bed as well. And the first time I kissed her, I realized this would have happened anyway. She tasted like strawberries and smelled like honey, felt like soft rose petals.

When Peeta and Katniss came to see us, and I was stricken with nervousness and uncertainty about where my emotions would be, she was supportive and understanding, never insecure, she was just happy to be reunited with Katniss, and so was I. And I realized then, that everything was going to be okay. That I was stupidly in love with Madge and had been for quite some time.

It became quickly apparent that the four of us all needed each other, feeding off each other's strengths, complementing each other's weaknesses. We're an entity among ourselves, a perfect machine specifically tempered for the job we do. We could never have gone back to traditionally _normal_ lives again.

After that first mission, we had extended downtime, an uncertain period where we weren't sure who else was out there or if we should try to reach out for other survivors around the world. A domestic lifestyle wouldn't have suited any one of us, so we kept busy, traveled a lot. Madge and I hunted together, weeded out old Peacekeepers in the isolated towns around Two, flushed out corruption and crime. We eventually went out to Ten with Dalton to help build the irrigation pipeline that spanned the district to bring life to the Dunes, worked on its filtration systems to make it potable from the oil spills that poisoned the gulf.

Katniss gave archery lessons and taught survival skills around the more struggling districts. She and Peeta spent a lot of time helping people get back on their feet, smoking out residual corruption as well. They bounced around the districts a lot, bought properties in nearly every one of them, kept a vacation townhome in the Capitol for their visits there. Peeta apprenticed as a tattoo artist there, then bought premises and opened a shop of his own, and soon, all of the most notable Panem personalities were wearing his ink. He was featured on the covers of multiple fashion and body modification magazines, his artwork emblazoned on billboards, celebrities showed off his ink on their bodies in advertisements and films. It wasn't long before the three of us were all sporting his ink as well. Soon I had a sleeve of my own, Katniss got an entire back piece, Madge got a phoenix spanning her entire right side from her hip to her breast. Having a significantly gentler hand than most tattoo artists and a particularly vibrant art style, Peeta was booked solid.

Then, over the months, many of Snow's horrific secrets began to surface, problems the four of us had to discreetly settle. With no official national law enforcement established yet, the only option for handling difficult problems was to send in mercs to clean it up, and we were happy to do it.

One of the nastier jobs involved dealing with the mutts his scientists had engineered to terrorize tributes in the arena. It was something no one ever really thought about; where they came from, what became of them when they weren't being deployed to hunt people down. It was when a very peculiar epidemic hit the Capitol, something contaminating the water in an exclusive grid of the city, that we found the underground facility where they were being engineered.

It was a lot like falling right back into that hole in the woods, right down to the smell. Only this time, it was horrific laboratory creations rotting away in the hole instead of people. And admittedly, even though I'd been hunted down by the things, even though one of them left an ugly, permanent scar on my neck that Madge always affectionately kisses when she pulls close - I couldn't help but feel some sympathy for these abandoned, sickly creatures when we found them, rotting down in that subterranean hell. Some of them looked familiar, I recognized them from various Games I'd watched on television, there were a few of the lizard abominations that chased us through the tunnels; but most of them were hybrids I'd never seen before. Some of them looked like they'd always been deformed. Emaciated, nothing about their physiology suggested any kind of unassisted mobility.

"The rejects," Peeta whispered.

Experiments that went wrong. Muttations that didn't quite come out right, abandoned down there with the ones that were no longer needed, the ones that failed their objective. Struggling, chests palpitating with rapid, labored breath, eerily cognizant eyes staring out at us, following us as we moved about the rooms. We'd always ever been hunted by them, but seeing them like this, abandoned, without purpose, all of us wondering the same thing - _are they sentient_? We'd never thought about it before, perhaps always assumed by default that they were just puppets programmed to hunt and kill, but these were living, thinking creatures, forced into a world that didn't want them.

I remember seeing Peeta's conflicted emotions flickering across his face, the way it hardened into grim decision. And then he drew his M9, wordlessly walked through each room, and shot each one in the head. Twice.

Right before we torched the place.

Shortly after that, our next foreign job rolled in.

It would be the first of many, and always we worked with discretion. Silently taking out despotic leaders, invisibly providing aid to refugees. We could never make ourselves known. Legends have been created that talk of us, _the ghosts_ , but they're just that - legends. We're a secret entity, resuming our humble domestic jobs when we return home, living public lives of leisure. When Paylor's six year term was up and a new president was elected, we were introduced in a private meeting after the inauguration and told to keep up the good work. Johanna and Enobaria soon joined our team, as Johanna showed increased aptitude in reconnaissance and Enobaria had a talent for picking up foreign languages with incredible ease.

It was around that time that Snow's granddaughter came looking for us.

Or, more specifically, Peeta.

Peeta and I were walking together around the Capitol building's perimeter, toward the east wing where the four of us had each been allocated private offices of our own. We'd recovered old government documents from centuries ago, forgotten schematics from an old agency called _DARPA_ that we might put to good use.

I felt the hairs raise up on the back of my neck when Peeta's purposeful stride suddenly slowed, when his hand slowly reached down to his thigh holster and unlocked the safety on his sidearm as he drew it, muzzle cautiously pointed toward the ground as he advanced. I immediately drew my own, shooting him a quizzical sideways glance.

"My security detail is conspicuously absent," he said under his breath.

I made a cursory glance around the area, noting that not a single patrolling sentry was in sight. My eyes darted upward, immediately noticing that the red glow of the camera lenses, high up on the wall, were suspiciously dark. "Surveillance cameras are down, too," I whispered.

I'm not entirely sure what my life's most embarrassing moment might be, but being effectively disarmed by a seventeen year old girl is definitely up there.

The moment Peeta tentatively flicked open the door to his office - unlocked, the knob showed signs of tampering - Peeta's prosthetic buckled beneath him, his gun slipping away from him and sliding across the floor. I felt the sharp pain in my wrist before I even saw her, fingers spasming as my own weapon left my hand, heard the unmistakable sound of an expert field strip just before my face was being shoved into the wall, a pair of hands impassively frisking me. I turned cautiously after being released to see Peeta roughly hauled up from the floor, looking pointedly unsurprised at the whole situation as she did the same to him. He leaned all of his weight on his good leg as he silently complied with her searching hands before she came up with the trench knife he always keeps concealed in his boot. She frowned, turning the knife about in front of her face with a considerable expression of disappointment and bewilderment.

"Only two weapons?" she mused to herself, brows puckering as though this troubled her deeply for some reason. "Peeta Mellark, you would have made it exceptionally easy to kill you."

"Well, I'm not currently on an assignment," he said through clenched teeth. "How are things with you, Aurora?"

And then it all fell together. I realized this was the granddaughter we'd almost condemned to a final Hunger Games, the granddaughter whose only remaining family Peeta tortured and killed himself. Of course Peeta's father and Katniss' mother adopted her after the war, but her aptitude with tech soon landed her in an advanced school in District Three, so we hadn't seen her since. Even still, this would have happened regardless. One day she would be old enough to ask questions, though I had no doubt Mr. Mellark and Mrs. Everdeen did their best to answer them. But this was a personal matter. I wasn't about to defend myself. I didn't feel like I had the right.

"So you recognize me," she said. "Good." She glanced over to me. "Is it just the two of you?"

She was surely wondering about Katniss and Madge, who were at that very moment traipsing around in the mountains around the city, rock climbing having become a favored pastime for them.

"That depends. Where is my security detail?" Peeta asked, a note of impatience creeping into his tone.

"Alive," she answered simply.

This was good enough for Peeta, and he made a feeble, conciliatory gesture. "Do you mind if I sit? I presume you have an EMP device on you, and my prosthetic is getting cumbersome."

She gave a curt nod, settling into the seat across from him.

"I see you've been training," he said after settling himself behind his desk, eyes fixing on the detached slide release from my own handgun before flitting back up to her. "Was that in preparation for when we'd see each other again?"

She nodded slowly.

He took a measured breath, pressed his lips together and nodded in understanding. "Alright. Let's have a conversation."

It was shockingly civil. She asked questions, he answered them. He was painfully truthful. He owned up to his actions, confessed all of his sins, and all of her grandfather's as well. She listened, intensely sober, face emotionless the whole time. When it seemed she'd run out of questions, she just sat there, eerily silent for a long moment, seemingly considering everything he said with a detached expression that gave the impression she might have been a little unbalanced.

"You're not just a tattoo artist," she said at length, her gaze sweeping over his arms, both of which bore colorful sleeves of ink by that time.

Their eyes met for a long, uncomfortable moment, and he subtly shook his head once. "No," he whispered.

"You still kill people." It wasn't a question. She certainly knew a lot, had probably been watching our actions for quite some time.

Peeta cautiously ran his tongue over his bottom lip, inhaled slowly, nostrils flaring slightly. "Yes. Sometimes. If it's necessary. But they're bad people."

She cocked her head to the side. "Who decides that? How do you know _you're_ not the bad guys?"

I was glad I wasn't the one answering questions, because that one threw me. Not because I had any doubts about what we were doing, but because I wouldn't have known where to begin on convincing her. Peeta was unperturbed, face just as relaxed and stoic as ever. He kept his eyes on her, chewed pensively on his bottom lip for a moment as he gently drummed his fingers on his desk, rocking back and forth in his chair like they were having the most casual conversation in the world.

"I ask myself that everyday," he said softly. "It's a question that's never not on my mind, every mission. The threat of growing corrupt is always a byproduct of what I do. It isn't lost on me that people who often convince themselves they're working for a noble cause end up committing worse atrocities than the oppressors who preceded them. My only priority is deterrence. No one has yet figured out a more effective method of protection from the threat of totalitarian control, but I can guarantee that I'll never use 'security' as a pretense for a despotic or imperialistic agenda. I can also guarantee that none of the people I kill are even remotely innocent, having higher kill counts than I could ever achieve in two lifetimes. And if the time comes that my job becomes irrelevant, all I can give you is my word that I - and my colleagues" - his eyes briefly flitted to me - "will retire."

She sat immobile for a long, tedious moment, seemingly taking it all in. She didn't move at all, didn't fidget, not even so much as a blink as she stared blankly at the surface of his desk, unresponsive for such an inhumanly long moment that I almost asked if she was okay. I stiffened when she jerked suddenly, rummaging around in her pocket for what I was sure was a weapon, but she merely withdrew the magazine she'd pocketed from my gun and awkwardly handed it out to me. I took it with a shaking hand, unsure what to do with it.

Then she abruptly stood from her seat. "I'm not going to kill you. Thank you for your time."

She began to take her leave, but paused to produce a bobby pin from her hair, which she placed with a comically delicate hand on the desk in front of Peeta, almost as an afterthought. She left without another word. Peeta took it in stride, calm as ever, unceremoniously took the bobby pin and lifted up his pant leg, used the pin to fiddle with a small port in his prosthetic, which promptly brought it back to life. He glanced over at me, saw my bewildered expression and flashed a tight smile.

"Sometimes a person can be so brilliant, it leaves them a little..." He quirked an eyebrow, gave a quaint shrug as he lightly tapped his temple with the tip of his finger. "I knew she was coming. Eventually. My father and Katniss' mother gave her a positive environment to grow up in when she wasn't away at school, but I knew, eventually, she was bound to come looking for answers from the source. I'm just sorry I put you at risk. I thought I would have had a little more time. But this is good. She got closure, and she didn't kill us. She might prove a useful ally yet."

And she did.

A week after the encounter, the phone on my desk rang. I listened to the clicks and pulses of it going through several levels of encryption, and then her voice, distant but urgent, on the other end: "Were those DARPA schematics Mellark was carrying when I came to visit?"

 _When I came to visit_. As though we'd sat down to tea and biscuits. No _How are you_ or any preamble whatsoever. Straight and to the point. Less surprising that she had even known about the existence of DARPA and what they did. It was easy to see where the conversation was going.

She agreed to meet the four of us in District Two, where she spread the schematics out over my kitchen table, feverishly penciling in revisions for prototypes that never reached the market, making them more practical for real-world application. It was unclear whether or not she entirely approved of what we did, but she was nothing if not an opportunist, taking advantage of our convenience to test out her ideas.

And then she proposed a new design for Peeta's artificial leg - impervious to EMP, like his lung - to safeguard against anyone else using it against him again. It was sobering to see him being fitted for the new one. No one had ever seen him without his prosthetic, and he had been particularly self conscious about Katniss seeing him without it, the fiber optics sticking out from his stump in a strange conglomeration of flesh and synthetic material. But when he tried to hastily cover himself and shy away from her curious eyes, she only affectionately drew his hand away and kissed him.

It was a few months after that when Peeta went missing.

Aurora continued to be a useful wealth of surprises, using tracking software specifically calibrated to his synthetic parts to pinpoint the coordinates to his location.

They led us across the ocean east of Panem, much farther south than we'd ever gone, to a stormy, subtropical highland with impressive cityscapes dotting the horizon, skylines of architecture far more complex in design than even the Capitol's. Their technology and civilization were far more advanced than ours, but as we flew low over the cities, most notable was the shocking contrast of living conditions - the luxurious glimmer of towering glass high-rises, seemingly dropped right in the middle of the surrounding shanty towns and squatter settlements, a halo of dirty, dusty environs shrouding a polished facade of opulence that made the place all the more ominous and misleading.

We could see riots and fires in some of the isolated grids down below, dingy alleyways crawling with patrolling drones with mounted weapons. It was a huge risk we were taking, following a blind lead into a country we knew nothing about, and absolutely no intel on what was obviously a solo mission Peeta never bothered telling us about. What did become quickly apparent was that some sort of mass persecution was taking place. People were being dragged from their homes - if a lean-to made from castaway corrugated steel could be called as much - then restrained and loaded into imposing armored vehicles. Some didn't even get that luxury - they were merely dragged out of their homes, forced to their knees, scanned with some sort of device, then promptly shot in the head.

"Why are they being targeted?" I asked.

After an extended moment of watching in stunned silence, Katniss gasped as her hand flew to her mouth. "They all have robotic parts," she whispered.

"No..." I said doubtfully. "No, that guy right there is all flesh. He doesn't have..."

"Not that you can see," she countered. "He might have something inside. Like Peeta's synthetic lung. That's why they scan them."

They all had some kind of robotic alterations - prosthetic limbs, sleek exoskeletons, some had strange metal devices fused to their spines. Others didn't have any visible work done, but it still didn't make it any less clear what they all had in common. With Peeta's artificial parts, things were not boding well for what may have happened to him.

"No need to panic yet, he's still alive," Aurora's voice chimed in our earpieces, startling us - we were roughly ten thousand miles away from home and she'd managed to somehow modify our communications devices to speak with us even from this distance.

"How could you possibly know that?" Katniss snapped.

"I've got his vital feeds right in front of me. His synthetic lung is still respirating. Heart rate's a little low, but steady. I'm tracking your Holos so it should be easier to guide you. Find him. Bring him home."

With Aurora directing us, we were led to the charred remains of a shanty town, the ashes and rubble still smoldering. The unmistakable stench of burning flesh still hung on the air. I remember it from the day the fire bombs dropped on Twelve. Madge's face went sallow, her eyes clouded as she went somewhere else for a minute, my arm flying out to catch her as her knees buckled. She absently excused herself, turned and stumbled a few steps away, then crouched down with her head between her knees and vomited. Either she was remembering the death of her parents and the destruction of her home, or flashing back to that time she spent in the hole, powerful memories triggered by the smell. She remained crouched for a while, breathing heavily with her eyes closed, trembling violently, then finally struggled to her feet and returned on unsteady legs.

"I'm fine," she said flatly, her face closed off. "Come on."

The first time I rescued Peeta, he was being tortured in a facility off of the Training Center. Being there, seeing the remains of the ones that didn't make it, seeing what was left of the ones that _did_ \- it gave me nightmares for months.

This place made that look like a luxury resort.

No plumbing or electrical supply. The humid air was pregnant with the stench of char, human waste, and the decaying scent of death and putrid flesh. What little remained of the shacks were singed and creaking, threatening to collapse any moment. It was pretty clear that even before it was burned to the ground, it was already a wasteland with horrible living conditions. It made living in the Seam look like a privilege.

In the very center of town was the large pile of remains. Bodies piled on top of one another, charred black save for their synthetic parts, which remained perfectly intact, glinting silver and glossy black in the glare of sunlight. Soft blue and white lights still glowed within them, resilient even against the fire that burned their owners to death. Metal fingers twitched spasmodically, short-circuiting as their mechanics searched for a neural connection.

A strangled sound came out of Katniss as she pitched down onto one knee, but she abruptly forced herself back up and approached the smoking pile. I knew exactly what she was thinking, could see it in the way her face settled into that unreadable mask when she shuts herself off emotionally, preparing for the worst. She looked ready to start digging through the bodies, sure she would find a gruesomely burned Peeta buried somewhere within, struggling to stay alive.

"You're close," Aurora advised. "Twenty meters. Keep looking."

Madge jerked her head up, we exchanged a glance, and immediately whipped away from the burnt pile to start sifting through the wreckage of the homes left behind. There were more bodies in and around those too, though they hadn't been burned. They looked like they'd been fleeing, tripped up in mid-run. Some had bullet holes in their backs. Others seemed to have choked to death from smoke inhalation, or trapped beneath collapsed panels, the structural integrity of the buildings weakened from the blaze.

"Shouldn't there be guards, patrols of some sort?" Madge whispered, eyes darting around the open space as we searched. I glanced back at Katniss, who was still frozen by the pile as she stared emptily at the bodies, paralyzed by the fear of what she thought she might find.

"Theoretically. It's a ghost town now. No one left alive _to_ guard."

Either that or it was a trap. I think Madge knew it too. I could tell by the way she kept cautiously looking over her shoulder, always keeping one shoulder turned toward the best escape route, kept her finger tense on the trigger of her rifle. We kept on in silence, lifting collapsed walls and furniture to check the bodies trapped underneath, gingerly turned bodies over to inspect their faces.

Only one building remained remotely intact, singed from the flames blown into it from the wind, a skeletal structure with a large asymmetrical cross crowning the roof's apex. There were dozens of bodies inside, all bloodied and draped over the wooden benches, some face down in the aisle in the center of the room. There were bullets in their backs, in their heads.

And then, at the opposite end of the room, barely visible beneath a couple of corpses, was the vibrant color of Peeta's tattooed arm. Nearly tripping over the corpse at my feet, I ran down the aisle as Madge whipped around and called out to Katniss. I crouched down, shoved one body aside, then another. I gave a sigh of relief when I saw Peeta's chest move with shallow breath, but when he stirred and weakly turned his head toward me, my stomach lurched as my hand flew to my mouth.

His left eye was missing.

Blood had dried in red rivulets down his face, and the empty socket was inflamed. There was no telling how much pain he must have been in, though his mind had probably checked out much earlier. He was barely conscious. There were ligature marks around his neck and wrists, and his body was covered in deep lacerations.

" _Fuck_ , Peeta..." I thought I might be sick. I gingerly reached forward, hovered a trembling hand over his brow in what was meant to be a comforting gesture, but too terrified to go anywhere near his empty eye socket for fear of hurting him. "What the hell happened to you?" I breathed.

He flashed a feeble smile, that same one he gave Katniss that day she found him in the mud bank in their first Games. "It's okay, I've still got the other one," he mumbled.

I heard the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps as Katniss sprinted over to us, and I turned to hold up a restraining hand. "Katniss, stay back. You don't - "

She shoved me to the side and crouched down, and where I'd expected tears and panic, instead she grew strikingly calm. Almost like something shut off inside her. Her eyes went glassy and she cautiously swallowed, pressing her lips tightly together as though she were afraid of the sound that might come out of her.

"Hey - it's okay. I'm okay," he rasped, reaching bloodied fingers out to her, but reconsidered the gesture and withdrew his hand instead. Like he was worried about something as trivial as getting blood on her face. "They didn't find me. That's why I hid under the bodies."

Dreadful as it sounded, I added _hiding under corpses_ to my mental checklist of avoiding detection.

After assessing that nothing major was broken and that he could be safely moved, I hoisted Peeta over my shoulder, wincing at the agonized yelp that came out of him, then rushed him onto the hovercraft, where a medical team was already prepped for surgery. Before the medic could slip the needle into his arm, his hand shot out, slick with blood but gripping me with an intensity that was sure to leave bruises, his remaining eye burning with determination and fury.

"Finish the objective," he growled.

"Peeta...?"

His fingers tightened around my forearm with such intensity that I felt my bones creak. " _Finish the fucking objective_ ," he said through clenched teeth.

I felt Katniss hovering just behind my shoulder, and when I turned my head to meet her eyes, they were still surprisingly dry, her face holding the same level of malice and aggression as the day she killed Coin. The same level of vengeance. "Who were the targets and where can we find them?" she asked.

"Aurora will debrief you," he gasped, falling back against the operating table as an oxygen mask was fitted over his nose and mouth.

Katniss whipped around as a glass door sealed shut in front of us, pointedly turning away from the grisly scene of him on the operating table. I'd seen their first Games, I remembered the bad shape he was in all those years ago when they lifted them out of the arena. More specifically, I remember how the coverage of their Games ended on the footage of her pounding on the glass door as the doctors tried to revive him. It was a striking moment of deja vu, and I could tell Katniss was struggling to keep herself together. I knew her well enough that to her, she only had two options: break down emotionally, or continue on a warpath for revenge.

"Aurora, you knew about this?" she barked into her headset.

There was a short silence and a strained gasp through my earpiece, and I could picture her struggling on the other end, trying to find the proper words for a response.

"Commander Everdeen, I assure you I had no knowledge of...wait. ...Hang on, let me just..."

There was an extended silence, an awkward five minutes of us listening intently to the silence on the other end, and finally our Holos lit up, showing new coordinates and dossiers. Using a vulnerability in Panem's networking system that only she knew about, Aurora was able to remotely access all of Peeta's communications over the past week.

What we learned was that a new kind of genocide was happening in that place, where synthetically enhanced humans were being persecuted, imprisoned, tortured, and killed. Their engineers had originally created advanced prosthetics, organs, even neural implants for the disabled or critically ill, and these enhancements were such an improvement to the real thing that many opted for elective surgery to replace their body parts with stronger cybernetic augmentations. Like any population with a significant cultural dichotomy, fear and politics and hate began to inundate their society, and something as intrinsic as expressing bodily autonomy became a sure way to get oneself killed. When the government became involved, anyone not purely organic was imprisoned or executed.

Considering Peeta's own enhancements, it was a personal thing, and he felt obligated to help. Only he'd been captured before he could carry out his mission.

Katniss didn't say a single word for the entirety of the mission. When we located the target - a sadistic demagogue responsible for instilling fear in the population via lies and fear-mongering, who had ordered the mass executions - she opted to take him out herself, garroting him from behind with such force and vengeful dedication that she took his head clean off.

Most notable was how he turned out to be synthetically enhanced himself, a secret he'd kept from his cult of supporters for years.

Peeta was recovering from surgery by the time we returned to the hovercraft, a swathe of gauze wrapped around his head to cover his empty eye socket. He seemed distant and withdrawn, either a byproduct of being heavily sedated or still in shock, or both. Katniss went straight to his bedside, upended the sack she was carrying, and dumped the head onto his bedside table, then grabbed it by the hair to turn it around so Peeta could see the biochip embedded at the base of the skull.

"Don't plan on keeping it," she said brusquely. "We're leaving it where his people can see it, let them know how much of a farce this movement was."

A weak smirk tugged the corner of his mouth, a look of distant admiration on his face as he stared thoughtfully at the trophy.

"I love you," he whispered, reaching his hand out to take one of hers, which was still slick with blood.

She pulled up a chair and eased down into it, fixing him with a grim, chastising expression. "Peeta. _What the fuck_ ," she said softly. "You wanna tell us what the hell happened out there?"

He went on to explain how a patrolling drone caught him, a device that had been specifically designed to root out enhanced humans. It had tagged him the moment he entered their airspace, it would have been impossible for him to remain undetected. It turned out that all enhanced persons were legally obligated to be registered in the government database, and since he'd come from ten thousand miles away, his biometric data came back as unknown and alerted authorities to his location the moment he landed. Local guerrillas destroyed his hovercraft and killed the pilot on sight, having mistaken them for rebel forces from a neighboring metropolis to the far south. Then Peeta was taken into custody and thoroughly - brutally - questioned. Luckily they spoke English there, albeit with a strange accent.

With Peeta's enhancements being of a design no one had seen before, with no identifiable signature from any of their known robotics firms, he was immediately deemed a terrorist threat and sentenced to death without a trial. And Peeta has never been known to talk, so his _interrogation_ was significantly harsh before he was condemned to a firing squad outside the city. The transport vehicle had weaknesses though, and he managed to escape, but being half blind and leaving a blood trail from about a dozen open wounds, hiding was his only option. Armored guards were clearing out the surrounding villages, and since all cybernetic enhancements were resistant to almost any kind of damage, their signatures would confuse any patrolling drones, and it occurred to him to try to blend in with the rest of the bodies.

And camouflage had always been Peeta's strong point.

" _They tortured you_ ," Katniss whispered.

He shrugged, as though it were commonplace. And for him, I guess it was. "I'm trained for it," he said dismissively. After seeing Katniss' face fall, he feebly reached up and caught her chin in his hand. "Hey - if I'd talked, they would have granted me mercy and just executed me immediately. At least by being a stubborn son of a bitch, I bought myself some time."

He glanced over to Madge and me, where we hovered awkwardly in the doorway. "Thanks for coming to get me," he said with a sheepish smile.

The ride home was mostly listening to Katniss berating him, her shouting muffled but still audible through the compartments of the hovercraft. It was comical after a while, and soon she had to stop because she'd shouted herself hoarse. Madge seemed a little detached, having immediately popped open a liquor bottle the moment we were certain that Peeta would be okay. I knew she didn't want to talk about it. I knew she kept replaying those days she spent in that hole, the day the fire bombs dropped on Twelve, I could see her constantly scrubbing her nose, trying to get that smell out of her nostrils. I could see the blaze myself every time I closed my eyes, could hear the screams, I found my body giving random involuntary twitches as my mind kept convincing me I was still there. Sleep was certainly out of the question, so we distracted ourselves with booze and sex until we blacked out.

By the time we got back into Panem airspace, Aurora came back over our headsets: "I hear Peeta's got some missing pieces. Come see me at your earliest convenience. I have something I want to show you."

Katniss insisted that Peeta get some rest, that he needed more time to recover, but he wanted to see what Aurora had to show us. Our flight path was redirected to District 3, where we touched down at some infernal hour in the early morning. Having lived her entire childhood under her grandfather's opulent parties, she'd been conditioned to a nocturnal lifestyle, so she never slept earlier than sunrise. The weird hours gave her the luxury of working on her designs with minimal disturbances. She gave Peeta a distant, cursory glance as she received us, then absently waved us forth as she led us into the clean room where she tested her various devices.

"Obviously you'll have to heal completely before it can be connected, but I think you'll find it quite satisfactory," she said, nodding toward an enclosed display case with a marble-like device with wiring attached hovering inside.

"A cybernetic eye?" Peeta gasped. "I didn't even think these were...Aurora, this is really advanced."

"It's a prototype, but it's made from materials you've already got installed in you, so the risk of rejection is unlikely. Don't worry about the color, I can have it modified to match your other eye."

Katniss didn't even try to hide her apprehension, eyeing the device with pronounced skepticism. "Peeta, considering what you've just been through, is it really a wise idea to add more synthetic parts?"

"I already have enhancements, Katniss. I'm always going to have my leg, and I'm definitely not getting rid of my lung. It kept me alive in that hellhole when smoke inhalation would have killed me otherwise. And I'm a sniper. I need my eyes."

Because of course, something as trivial as losing an eye wasn't going to push Peeta into retirement.

"Hm, yes, that's actually exactly how I was going to sell you on it," Aurora quipped. "Of course, an actual surgeon will have to have you fitted for it, they'll need to tweak your neural pathways to train your brain for the new input. This eye is much more advanced than your old one would have been, it will take some training for your brain to be able to process the images the new eye sends it. But soon you won't even need a spotter. You'll see things most humans can't."

He idly reached a hand out to squeeze my shoulder. "Well. I'll always need my spotter."

* * *

After eleven years, we've all had our fair share of getting torn up. Peeta has graciously tattooed over our scars. But nothing has pushed us into retirement yet.

Beside me, Jet gives a small, muted bark, ears perked forward as she stands to attention, tail wagging slightly. I follow the direction of her gaze, barely distinguishing Madge and Katniss across the ravine as they slip into the enclosed area housing the communications arrays. I peer through my binoculars again, watch as they plant C4 on the generators, then hurry back the way they came. The ensuing explosion ricochets off the mountains, a cloud of dust and smoke billowing up from the now destroyed comms hub.

Then I see the flurry of movement where there shouldn't be any - nothing distinguishable, just movement - but it's in a pattern. Strategic. Hidden scouts, expertly camouflaged in the mountains. Of course it would be too much too ask that the comms would be unguarded.

"Hey. They've got company," I warn. "Looks like there's four of them, coming from the east along the ridge. Staggered formation."

Peeta tenses, lifts his face up from behind his scope and narrows his eyes. I can just see the iris in his cybernetic eye rotating slightly, zooming in on something only he can see, and his finger curls on his trigger, but he hesitates. The only time he doesn't take a shot is when he has no line of sight or if he might endanger civilians or allies.

"Shit," he hisses, yanking the bandana down from his face to free his mouth. "You've got a team flanking you," he says into his headset. "They're almost on you. You'll need to activate stealth. _Now_ , do it _now._ "

I watch through my binoculars as Madge and Katniss immediately flatten themselves to the ground, reaching back to the shield modules clipped to their belts before going invisible entirely. One of the perks of having Aurora Snow as an ally is that she does outrageous things with existing technology, like merging our holographic shields with the active camouflage capabilities of our hovercraft, making it possible to render humans invisible for limited periods of time. You only have to hope no one bumps into you or steps on your hand while it's active, which tends to lead to awkward questions.

I hold my breath as my eyes adjust enough to clearly make out each individual patrolman, their rifles at the ready as they search the area. I watch them close in on the spot where I know Madge and Katniss are pressed to the ground. I'm certain Peeta can hear my heart pounding nervously in my chest, but he looks as calm as ever. I know he can still see them with that eye of his, know he's got that eye trained directly on them as his finger bears down on his trigger.

"At least they don't have thermals," Peeta mutters, ducking his head to peer through his scope again.

He takes the shot. One of the squad members drops. The others reel on their spots, turning around frantically to find the threat. Peeta takes another shot. Another patrolman drops. I reach down and flip on the radio we stole from a wandering guard, understanding none of the foreign chatter except for one word: _ashbah_. Ghosts.

Enobaria, who is stationed on the hovercraft circling overhead and is listening in on every communication within a ten mile radius, translates for us. They're sending out an urgent distress call to the neighboring outposts, who will never receive it because we've just destroyed their comms. The only people who will hear it are the ones in Peeta's crosshairs.

Peeta fires another shot. One patrolman remains. I nervously look to the horizon. The storm is close. It would be physically impossible for Katniss and Madge to get back before it hits.

"Hey - relax," he says, shooting a sideways glance at me. "The hovercraft can still land in these conditions, and I can still see them." He lifts the bandana back over his nose and mouth just as the first wisps of dust start to blow in, abrasive as it whips across our faces. He takes the last shot. The remaining patrolman hasn't yet hit the ground before Madge and Katniss' shields need to recharge, the active camouflage wearing off so that they blink back into sight. They leap to their feet and begin booking it back down the mountain.

"Hey, what do you think you're doing?" I bark through my headset. "Visibility's at fifty percent, hold your position! We're coming to get you."

I squint across the ravine, then try my binoculars, but the dust has gotten so thick that I can't see. I can already feel it, gritty and dry as it accumulates in my hair.

"Still got a visual on 'em?" I ask, squinting at Peeta, who I can barely see even though he's two feet away.

He nods. "They're crouched low by a large rock. Let's go."

The hovercraft materializes instantly above us, and within five minutes, we're touching down where Madge and Katniss have hidden. They're considerably caked in dust, are bleeding from a dozen scratches on their legs from the rough terrain, but are mostly unscathed. Destroying the comms was only the prep for the mission. Now the fun part begins, and we stock up on ammo and supplies as the hovercraft carries us to our next destination.

"Switch to tranqs, everyone," Katniss advises. "We're taking this one in alive. She's going to be relatively unguarded because they can't call for backup."

Johanna sends new grids and predicted patrol routes to our Holos as Enobaria continues to translate idle radio chatter. It's usually just gossip between bored guards, but every once in a while, a rumor or small talk can drop pretty useful intel. It's also a good way to pick up on the local culture, making it easier to fake it and blend in if we're ever spotted or captured.

"Remember to make your movements erratic," Peeta says as the hovercraft touches down. "Chances are, nobody's going to ever spot us, but you still never know who might be watching. Spotters look for patterns, so if you keep your movements unpredictable, and most importantly, _keep moving_ , it's harder for them to line up a shot."

The door to the hovercraft opens and we jump down to the ground. Peeta turns his head over his shoulder, and we all mouth the words as he says it -

" _And watch your six_."

All over the world, the legends of _the ghosts_ continue to follow us, always embellished with some supernatural twist. We're spoken of in hushed tones by the corrupt, heralded as heroic vigilantes among the hungry and abused. Disguised and blending in with the crowds in foreign lands, we have entire conversations with superstitious locals who unwittingly tell us the stories about ourselves. It's like a game.

And it is the best game to play.

 _A humane future for the world's population has begun today.  
Hasta la victoria siempre._

* * *

A/N: WHOOPS, sorry for abandoning this for six months. Here's the final chapter.


End file.
